Out of the Dark

36 What We’re Not Dealing With

Chaos.

It was nearly impossible to focus amid the raised voices and overlapping arguments in the Oval. Bennett sat on the couch, leaning forward with his fingertips pressed together, taking in the crossfire. It was almost three in the morning, the air thick with stale breath and body heat.

His vice president was talking at him — or, more precisely, talking at the top of his head. Victoria Donahue-Carr had a grating voice to begin with, but it reached new heights of stridency now. “—been in a seventy-two-hour knife fight with the Committee on Oversight and Government Reform—”

Without moving he tuned his focus behind him to a heated debate taking place between his chief of staff and three senior advisers. “—have to get out ahead of the story on Wetzel to deflect—”

“—only going to add to questions about what the hell is—”

“—analysis on why Doug was targeted?”

Donahue-Carr’s voice bored back in on the action. “—and believe me when I say, Jonathan, that I can’t hold off that congressional subpoena another minute. This is no longer a question. Something has to give.”

“Quiet!”

The room silenced.

It was the first time Bennett had raised his voice since taking office.

“Everyone out,” he said quietly. “Eva, bring in Naomi Templeton.”

Eva Wong snapped off a nod. The longtime special assistant to the president, Eva had hastily been promoted to fill Wetzel’s shoes. Bennett couldn’t trust her as much as he trusted Wetzel, but then again trust was illusory, a lie that weak men drew false comfort from. Relationships were about holding influence, the right cards, the reins.

Wetzel’s murder had been a shot across the bow from X. It had the added benefit of cutting off Bennett from his most trusted man, isolating him further.

As the room emptied out, Naomi Templeton entered, blading her body as she moved against the current. The door sucked closed, and Bennett finally moved, pulling himself upright, knuckling his glasses back into place.

“The files strapped to Wetzel,” Templeton said, “were lost in the explosion. We’re down to ash. What were they?”

“You’re not going to offer any niceties about Doug’s passing?” Bennett asked.

Templeton sat on the facing couch from which Donahue-Carr had assailed him moments before. “I’d prefer not to waste time,” she said.

Bennett nodded. “I have no idea what files were strapped to him.”

“The few scraps that we recovered had redaction markings.”

He stared at her. She hadn’t asked a question, so he didn’t offer a response.

“I’m assuming that they have something to do with you,” she continued. “Or else why send them onto White House grounds strapped to your deputy chief of staff?”

Bennett said, “It appears clear that a would-be assassin was hoping to smuggle in the bomb on Doug to get it within range of me.”

“We both know this wasn’t an assassination attempt,” she said.

Bennett skewered her with eye contact. “It appears clear that a would-be assassin was hoping to smuggle in the bomb on Doug to get it within range of me,” he told her again.

Her slender throat pulsed. She pursed her lips. Hesitated. Said, “I understand.”

He softened his face, if barely. “I’m glad we’re clear.”

“How about the photograph pinned to Wetzel’s tie?” she asked. “The murdered prosecutor? My guys pulled a screen grab from the footage.”

“I assume Orphan X killed her and wanted us to know.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I gleaned from the briefing that she’s had a long and storied career. Maybe she went after him or one of his interests in the past.”

He didn’t like how Templeton was looking at him. “You’re implying,” he said, “that Orphan X has some kind of information on me.”

“Or that he believes he does,” she said. “We’re clearly dealing with a highly paranoid suspect.”

He noted that she’d adjusted her tone to strike a careful note. They were talking beneath the words. His preferred kind of conversation.

“If he did have any information,” Bennett said, “it would be classified at the highest level. Beyond your security clearance. Or anyone else’s. The content needn’t concern you.”

A hint of perspiration sparkled at her hairline. “In this … scenario, why wouldn’t he just release what he has to the press?”

“That’s no longer good enough for him,” Bennett said. “Theoretically. And, theoretically, he’d be uncomfortable leaving the matter in the hands of others. He’d have a healthy and justified respect for my ability to protect myself in the political arena.”

“So what’s he telling you, then? With all this, the files?” Quickly, she added, “Theoretically.”

“That he’s gonna keep digging until he finds what he’s looking for. And that he’ll let the world know. After.”

She said, “After he’s killed you?”

Bennett moved his head up, down.

“To obliterate your reputation. Your legacy.”

“Yes,” Bennett said.

She exhaled. It seemed she’d been holding her breath.

“So,” he said. “Do you understand what we’re dealing with? And what we’re not dealing with?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Agent Templeton.”

He waited for her to exit.

The questions surrounding Wetzel’s death could be deflected, yes, but Bennett was already taking incoming fire from enough fronts that his presidency was nearing a crisis point.

Crisis management, he’d learned, generally balanced on getting others to focus on a different crisis, one of his choosing. Bait and switch, sleight of hand, a gentle tap to send the news cycle into a different spin.

Phones were omnipresent at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, always within arm’s reach. He leaned for the nearest table and dialed the assistant secretary.

Two minutes and thirty seconds later, Eva Wong appeared, pad and pen in hand, her razor-straight bangs cut high on her forehead. “Mr. President.”

“Tell the congressional committee that I will be happy to appear next week—voluntarily. There is no need for a subpoena, and there is not to be a subpoena or I will stonewall them for the next three and a half years. When’s the press briefing announcing Doug’s death?”

She fumbled through her stack to check. “We have it at ten A.M.”

“Hold another in the late afternoon regarding my cooperation with the committee. We need voters to know how obliging and transparent I am. That I’m eager to help them get to the bottom of this and to set the record straight. That there’s no smoking gun here.”

She was scribbling notes furiously. “Mr. President, given the timing, a hearing could be—”

“Eva, I have the vice chair and five of nine committee members in my pocket. It’s a dog and pony.”

He watched her attempt to digest this.

“But the vice president said—”

“What Victoria doesn’t understand is that I’ve also been busy these past seventy-two hours.”

He stood to convey that Wong was dismissed. Still jotting notes, she took a few backward steps toward the door. “Sorry,” she said. “Just trying to keep up.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, bestowing upon her a rare smile. “You’ll figure out how this works soon enough.”