“You know I can’t.”

  “But you can help me by telling me there’s nothing there, right? That’s not like confirming something I’m working on. For old time’s sake.”

  Liam sits still, not wanting to hear his ex-wife trying to work him.

  Kay says, “What you mentioned, about all enemies, foreign and domestic. I’m hearing bits and pieces that your boss might be expanding your Agency’s reach, including the domestic part of the world. You can imagine the firestorm if that were to happen.”

  Liam says, “You really think that a science nerd like Acting Director Milton Fenway would even think of doing something like that?”

  Kay laughs. “What makes you think I’m talking about him? No, I’m talking about our second bachelor president, former spook and ‘Dark Knight.’ The honorable President Keegan Barrett. We’re hearing bits of information that he’s using his old contacts in Langley and at the Pentagon to set up his own back-channel network to go after those on his enemies list.”

  There are no real secrets in DC, Liam thinks, no matter what the dwellers haunting the internet and their moms’ basements want to think, but he’s stunned—and a bit sickened—to think President Barrett’s efforts have already leaked out.

  What to do?

  Deny and lie?

  Try to dodge around it?

  Convince Kay to leave it alone?

  He gets up, squeezes her hand.

  “Sorry, Kay, I’m late. Good to see you.”

  He strides out through the crowded bar, not hearing if she is saying anything, but knowing he’s just done the right thing.

  As much as they unsettle him, questions now echo in his mind:

  Who’s the leaker?

  And why?

  CHAPTER 28

  Washington, DC

  NOA HIMEL IS slightly buzzed from her fourth glass of white wine, on top of a homemade meal of pasta and garlic bread, and she’s stretched out on a small settee in the condo unit of one of her best friends, just relaxing and trying to unwind.

  Sitting across from her is Gina Stasio, whom she met when they both started in a training group after their initial hire at the Agency. Gina is short, dark-haired, plump, a wonderful cook, and an incredibly talented member of the Office of Technical Services, the creator and curator of spy gear that’s used in the field, all the way from disguises to hidden cameras to encrypted radio systems.

  Gina says, “Top you off?”

  “In a bit,” Noa says. “That means I have to move, and sorry to say, Gina, your comfortable couch here has seized my ass.”

  Gina laughs. “I can bring the wine to you, girl. And the couch unfolds, so if you want to spend the night, feel free to do so.”

  The living room is snug and cozy, with low bookcases and two oil paintings of Chesapeake Bay up on the wall, both done by Gina. The television is set to Netflix, some edgy new miniseries about a woman detective in Seattle.

  “I might take you up on it,” Noa says. “You hear any fresh news about the veep?”

  Gina says, “Caught an update when I was cleaning up in the kitchen. Stable and safe condition at Walter Reed, still unresponsive. Poor woman.”

  To her surprise Noa says, “Maybe she’s ashamed of being a part of the Barrett administration.”

  Her friend laughs. “Noa, where the hell did that come from? You speaking out of school now?”

  Watch it, she thinks. Too many careers at the Agency have sunk in the amber waves of booze, even when consumed in the presence of friends.

  “I left school a long time ago, Gina,” she says.

  “Yeah, except for the school of hard knocks,” Gina says, getting up and going to the coffee table, picking up a bottle of California Chablis, filling up Noa’s wineglass.

  Noa doesn’t object.

  Gina returns to her chair. “Speak.”

  “Can’t.”

  “That high up?”

  Noa takes a healthy sip. “Mount Everest high up.”

  Gina purses her lips, picks up her own wineglass. “When I’m in my windowless workshop, doing my best to make a foolproof passport with the appropriate exit and visa stamps showing the exact shade of color and wear, and I sneeze and get droplets on the ink, and I have to dump two days of work and start over again…lots of times, I envy you folks out in Operations.”

  Another sip of wine from Gina. “But not today. Give your girl a hint or two. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Noa wants to sink into the couch and sip her wine and watch the Netflix episode forever and think of nothing else, and she hears herself saying, “From the Gospel of Matthew, Gina…‘Again, the devil took him to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, and their glory.’”

  The room is quiet, and Gina says, “You’re weirding me out, girl. How does a nice Jewish girl like you know so much about the New Testament? You saying you’re Jesus, and the devil is…Acting Director Fenway?”

  Noa says not a word, but makes a thumbs-up with her free hand, and gestures to the ceiling.

  “Oh, that’s pretty high,” Gina says.

  “You know it.”

  “And you’re tempted.”

  “Yes, because up there, you can see a lot. And do a lot. But also concerned…because…”

  “The air is pretty thin up there.”

  Another few seconds pass. Noa looks at the Netflix episode. Unimaginative and simple, but God, sometimes it’s good to be unimaginative and simple.

  Gina says, “Don’t care if the air is thin, or if the view is great, or if all the kingdoms are at your feet…if you get pushed off and start tumbling, Noa, where are you going to end up? Besides on that pert ass of yours.”

  “Probably in a crevasse, so I can keep on falling, just for the amusement factor.” Noa rubs at her forehead. “Forget it. Things are fine, I’m doing important work. Just sometimes, you want to be sure you’re doing right at the same time.”

  Gina says, “I had an instructor once, back in the day. She said some of the biggest dangers you’ll face in the Agency come from coworkers or supervisors. She said that every time you’re told to keep quiet, not take notes, or don’t keep records, that’s the time to take notes and keep records. You need something to save your butt in case things fall apart.”

  “Like playing poker.”

  “How’s that?”

  Noa sips again and decides she’s going to see how this couch feels when it does open into a bed. “My uncle Benny told me once, that if you’re playing poker and you can’t tell who the sucker is, then it’s you.”

  Gina says, “If you’re in an op, Noa, and you can’t tell who the fall guy is going to be…”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Then it’s going to be you.”

  On Netflix, the tough yet tender woman police detective has just tenderly shot someone twice in the chest who was threatening to assault her.

  Gina says, “I think I might be able to help.”

  Noa says, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Washington, DC

  IN HER LARGE and well-decorated office in the Longworth House Office Building, Gwen Washington, speaker of the House of Representatives and a congresswoman from the 43rd Congressional District in California, is staring hard at her three visitors this morning, feeling her mouth go dry with fear and anxiety.

  With her are Roget Blaine, her lead attorney; Tiana Grace, her chief of staff; and Shania Greer, her press secretary. All smart, good-looking, well dressed, and, like her, tough Black women in a tough world.

  Her office has a dramatic view of the Mall and the Washington Monument, then the rectangular shape of the reflecting pool, and at the end of that—hard to see in the day’s haze—the Lincoln Memorial. Nearly two centuries ago the figure in that memorial freed her great-great-grandfather from a Virginia plantation not more than a hundred miles away.

  Good job, Abe, she thinks. No matter the setbacks, the challenges, the failures that take place every day, looking at the Lincoln Memorial always sends a jolt up Gwen’s spine, makes her buck up and get to the job at hand, to honor her great-great-grandfather and so many others.

  She has a healthy self-confidence and ego, deservedly so, having pulled and dragged herself from the poor streets of Berkeley to studying hard and getting grants and scholarships, and getting into Yale, and then coming back, working her way through California politics.

  Yet in keeping her eye on the prize, she’s never forgotten her roots, never forgot her friends and classmates who didn’t have either her luck or drive, and she’s made sure that a fair amount of federal scholarship funds and grants get back to her district.

  But it’s the gentle sound of file folders and papers being placed on her desk that frightens her so, papers and file folders that may do what racist politicians, a biased news media, and even members of her party who dislike someone so powerful and “uppity” have wanted to do to her for years.

  Force her out of office.

  “How bad is it?” she asks.

  “Pretty bad,” her lead attorney, Roget Blaine, says.

  Gwen shakes her head. “Ten minutes ago, I was on the phone with President Barrett, him supporting keeping Juneteenth a federal holiday, and promising to give a push to that Department of Justice grant program for better police training, so our folks aren’t gunned down in the street. He even said he’d work with us on the economic power zones for the inner cities, so we get more there than liquor stores and bodegas. And now…now, all this progress and working with the president, it’s all threatened, is that what you’re telling me, Roget?”

  Her three closest advisers look at her in silence, three Black women carefully made-up and coiffed, wearing power suits and bright jewelry and fine shoes, marking them as part of Gwen Washington’s Posse, the gals that got stuff done up on the Hill. There are plenty of photos of her posse up on the wall, along with other photos as well, of W.E.B. Du Bois, Richard Wright, Adam Clayton Powell, Rosa Parks, MLK Jr., Shirley Chisholm, Barbara Jordan, Obama, and so many others who had made her path possible.

  And on her desk, in a prominent position, a large portrait of her husband, Hal, dead these past two years, so many hours in the last year of their marriage spent flying red-eye from DC to SF, trying to ease his suffering as pancreatic cancer ate him from the inside.

  “Yes, ma’am,” her attorney says. “It can all come tumbling down.”

  “Tell me,” she says. “Bad news never ages well.”

  And she looks one more time out the window, feeling like she’s on the edge of falling into a deep hole, failing her people from then, and her people now.

  So much to do and so little time to do it.

  Less than two hours later, after going through reams of documents, including deeds, government grant paperwork, checking account statements, and property listings, Gwen Washington, speaker of the House, feels a migraine headache coming on. When Roget Blaine finishes the briefing, Gwen sits back and takes a heavy drink of water.

  Roget says, “Madam Speaker, as your attorney I’m sorry to advise you that what we have here—in scores of documents contained in the thumb drive dropped off anonymously at your Berkeley office—is enough evidence to show that you and your late husband were involved in a yearslong effort to channel government grants and funds to shell companies owned by the two of you, as well as him getting to the head of the line for his bank—Municipal Financial of Berkeley—to get a federal bailout a week before it was going to be seized by the FDIC.”

  She taps a thick finger on another folder. “Then there’s a host of other petty complaints. You loudly demanding a room upgrade while visiting Las Vegas. Kickbacks to those office supply stores providing stock to your regional offices. Snapping at tourists getting in your way as you tried to board a member’s elevator on the Hill. Among other things.”

  Tiana Grace, her chief of staff, says, “Madam Speaker, we need to get ahead of this story before it gets out.”

  A vise seems to be slowly constricting around her heart. “But…none of it’s true! It’s bullshit! I made it clear to him, from day one when I got into politics, that our lives couldn’t mingle. He went his way, I went mine, and there’s no way on God’s green Earth did I do anything illegal.” She gestures to the pile of documents. “It’s a setup. Forgeries. Clever shit indeed but it’s all shit. Russians, Chinese, who knows who’s behind it.”

  Her attorney says, “I’m afraid that doesn’t matter at the moment, Madam Speaker. It’ll be the first impressions. The news will get out in the near future, and with Majority Leader Deering snapping at your heels…he will want to drag it out as long as possible, to weaken you, perhaps even get you to resign in disgrace. It’s going to be hard to prove a negative.”

  Gwen thinks of the thousands of people she’s helped over the years with scholarships, grants, how she served as a role model to those who thought the world was set against them from the day they were born.

  Was she going to allow herself to be used to disappoint them and add to the deep political cynicism that’s for years afflicted DC?

  No.

  Not this time.

  Gwen says, “Not going to happen. And we’re not going to allow this…crap, to get out in the news. I don’t want a whisper of this leaving this office or getting to Congressman Deering.”

  Her press secretary, Shania Greer, iPhone in hand, quietly says, “Majority Leader Fritz Deering is going to demand a full investigation.”

  “Says who?” Gwen asks. “Stop making shit up, Shania.”

  Her press secretary looks mournful. “I’m not making it up. I’m reading it on CNN.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Washington, DC

  A WEEK AFTER his swim in the Caribbean, Liam Grey is back to meet with President Keegan Barrett and Noa Himel, but instead of being in the White House’s family quarters, they are in a penthouse suite at the Hay-Adams Hotel, within walking distance of the Oval Office.

  Which is not typical, but which is also not unusual for this president. “With the world’s best communications equipment at my fingerprints,” he once told a columnist for the Washington Post, “why should I stay stuck in a two-century-old house?”

  The suite is two large rooms, with an adjoining bedroom and a sitting room that they’re occupying, with couches, coffee table, plush chairs, kitchen area, and large-screen television.

  Noa says, “You’ve gotten some sun.”

  “Yeah, but the trick is to goop up enough so you don’t burn and peel. How about you? Go any place interesting?”

  Noa says, “Interesting is where you find it.”

  Liam stifles a yawn.

  “Lots of travel?” Noa asks.

  “Some. You?”

  Noa says, “You know the setup, it’s all domestic. Just stayed in the good old States.”

  They wait.

  Liam is sensing something from Noa, an unease, something making her uncomfortable, out of sorts. “You look like you’ve just come back from the dentist,” he says. “What’s up? And I don’t mean a rejected expense account or a poor Performance Appraisal Report.”

  “Liam…”

  “Come on, Noa,” he says. “We’re on the same team, just different squads. Something’s bothering you.”

  She pauses, and says, “The other night I was in a CIA officer’s home. A stupid schlump who should have been cut loose years back. And I threatened him until he agreed to confess all and resign. It was a good job…but I felt like taking a long shower afterward.”

  “The job was done,” Liam says. “One given to you by the president. That’s all that counts.”

  “No, that’s not all that counts,” Noa says. “Who or what’s driving the job is what counts. Just before I left, this officer told me that when Barrett was Agency director, that he tried and failed to get rid of him. My mission, then. Something for the national interest, or Barrett getting his long-desired revenge? And you? What’s your time been like?”

  Liam smiles. “I was on an exotic Caribbean locale, sipping frozen drinks, talking to four amazing Venezuelan young ladies in bathing suits.”

  “What a burden.”

  “Yeah, and a while later, I saw a nearby house being rented by Hezbollah tourists suddenly collapse from poor building materials and a modified Hellfire missile, but mostly from a modified Hellfire missile. Awful sight, but you know what? No second thoughts.”

  “They’ll come eventually,” Noa says.

  “What? Another operation?”

  “No,” Noa says. “Second thoughts.”

  “None from me, Noa,” he says, crossing his arms. “We got a hunting license, we have all the resources we need, and we have POTUS on our side. What’s to worry?”

  Liam hears the doorknob turn. Noa says, “You know what they call dedicated CIA officers working on the edge, when they think they have foolproof protection?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Defendants,” she says, as the door to the suite opens.

  CHAPTER 31

  NOA IS JUST slightly amused at Liam Grey’s earlier comment about visiting the dentist, for one rear molar is indeed giving her a dull ache today, but she forgets the discomfort as the president strides in, dressed in a crisp two-piece gray suit, white shirt, and red-and-blue tie, upbeat and positive-looking, carrying two thick, sealed manila envelopes in his hands.

  She and Liam stand up when he comes in, and he gently gestures them both to take a seat in their respective chairs.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the president says, sitting down on the couch across from them. “I was just on the phone with the speaker. She’s having a tough day.”

  “Sir?” Noa asks.

  He spreads the two sealed envelopes on the coffee table and says, “Something from her late husband has come up from the grave to bite her in the butt. Loans, payoffs, shell companies in his or her names…looks rough. Times like that make me glad that I never married. Too many chances of something popping up from various family members and hangers-on to take you down.”

  Liam says, “That sounds serious.”