Out of the Dark

7 First Domino to Fall

Evan had taken the southwest corner penthouse suite at the Hay-Adams. The hotel was suitable for a number of reasons. The building itself, a venerable Italian Renaissance — style beauty, had pleasing architectural flourishes, from walnut wainscoting to Elizabethan ceiling treatments. The service was superb — old-fashioned and discreet. Its 145 rooms provided relative anonymity.

And it had a superb view of the White House.

Sitting at his picture window, snacking on Virginia poached oysters bedded with cauliflower mousse, caviar, and a touch of yuzu, Evan let his Steiner tactical binoculars scan across Lafayette Square once more and lensed in on the northwest gate, the first point of entry to the West Wing. He’d been down in the park yesterday in an appropriated Parks and Recreation uniform, moving among the stalwart protesters and strategically trimming branches to clear the sight lines.

Despite the advent of dusk, he maintained a perfect view of the guardhouse now, the range-finding binocs designed for low-light conditions. A cable ran from the binoculars to his laptop, feeding it a steady stream of data.

He paused to slurp another oyster and took a sip of mint tea.

It was a civilized way to conduct an assassination.

Down at the gate, a woman in a royal-blue pantsuit hit a buzzer and spoke to a uniformed agent through the bulletproof glass. She gestured with annoyance, waving a yellow pass, but was turned away.

As she stomp-hobbled away in blocky high heels, Evan regarded his laptop, which mapped the woman’s facial features, identifying her as a congresswoman from Florida’s sixth district.

Another oyster. More tea.

He could get used to this.

The overhead vent wafted a cool current across his shoulders. The air was perfumed with French-milled soap from the bathroom. He was shirtless, an Egyptian cotton towel still wrapped around his waist from the shower; he hadn’t bothered to get dressed.

Today Evan had announced himself to President Bennett. The rifle was the make and model Evan had used for his first assassination in 1997, the mission that — for whatever reason — Bennett was trying to eliminate any trace of all these years later. The photos Evan had taped on the wall were a few of the Orphans murdered at Bennett’s command. Those men were no longer invisible, unseen and unmourned, but displayed as proudly as the stars carved into the white Alabama marble of the Memorial Wall at Langley.

And Jack.

Jack’s face had been taped up in Apartment 705 as well, watching as Evan made his preparations, setting up the rifle, etching the round, parting the curtains to allow that first domino to fall.

For the past forty-five minutes, Evan had been set up here on the one-armed chaise longue of his hotel suite, waiting to see who Bennett would summon to handle the investigation. So far all Evan had captured in the lenses was a parade of White House workers and the occasional politician. He was hoping for a sign of Eddie Gonzalez, the Secret Service director, and whichever deputy assistant director he’d bring with him to run point on the investigation. Evan had figured that President Bennett would want to oversee the matter in person but, given the delay, he was beginning to think that Bennett might handle it over the phone.

A Jeep Wrangler parked beyond the gate, and a woman emerged. Tough-pretty, athletic build, her blond hair artlessly cut. No makeup, no jewelry. She was dressed nicely — dark jeans, white button-up, black fitted blazer — but not too nicely, as an aide or politician would be.

Promising.

The Steiners were a great set of glass, crisp up to a mile, refined enough that Evan could see the pierce holes in the woman’s ears. As she reached the guardhouse, he screen-captured her on the laptop and ran facial recognition.

Naomi Jean Templeton, special agent in charge, Protective Intelligence and Assessment.

Evan pulled up her record from the databases and scanned it.

She was a pay grade below the agents Evan had been anticipating, and newly promoted at that.

Bennett would think she was malleable, controllable.

There was nothing the president valued more than control.

Evan adjusted the focus and watched the agent in the guardhouse tapping on his computer, a hardline telephone shrugged to one ear.

Naomi Templeton waited, penned in, the outer fence closed behind her, the inner fence not yet open. The guard gestured, and she placed her credentials in the pass-through tray. He examined them and sent them back.

The inner fence rolled smoothly open, releasing her from the sally-port pen, and she started for the West Wing.

A marine sentry guarded the entrance, motionless as a carving, his spit-polished shoes throwing a gleam even at this distance, even in this light. As she neared, he pivoted with automated grace, held the door for her with a white glove. His spine was a steel rod.

Evan watched Naomi disappear inside.

At last he rose and let the towel fall away. He’d made the opening gambit. It was time to formulate the next move.