Naomi Templeton reached the building at H Street and 9th at 5:57 A.M . There was no signage anywhere, no logos or plaques, nothing to indicate what the building in fact was. But if you looked closely, you might notice the sleek security cameras peeking out from the tan brick overhang near the front door. You might notice that there were no trash cans on the sidewalk outside, no USPS mailboxes or newspaper vending racks that might hide an IED.
She paused to consider the awesome task that had been lowered onto her shoulders at the start of the week. It was worth approaching this building and this day with an added measure of respect.
Entering the nine-story rise, she passed through the metal detector, taking a moment before the words written across the wall in silver letters: WORTHY OF TRUST AND CONFIDENCE.
She drifted through the central atrium in a kind of focused haze, ordering her mind for the briefing to come, the orders she’d give, the arms she’d have to twist. She moved beneath the catwalks, the beehive of glass-walled offices, so many agents bent to a common cause.
A succession of somber photographs in the hall commemorated those killed in the line of duty. This morning she didn’t look at the clean-cut men and women with their stalwart eyes and proudly squared shoulders.
Instead she’d looked at the blank stretch of wall beyond the last slain agent’s portrait, the space allotted for future memorials.
If she didn’t do her job, there would be more faces on this wall.
One of them might be her own.
Upstairs in the nerve center on the top floor, she presided over the Joint Operations Center. A string of agents were plugged into monitors, overseeing the movements of protectees as code names and coordinates blipped around in real time. The current location of POTUS was front and center on a large screen dominating the south wall, a clear and present illustration of what the Service’s single top priority was.
A football team’s worth of Protective Intelligence and Assessment agents rimmed the immense oval table, mostly men, mostly white. If it weren’t for the shitty suits, it would’ve looked like a holiday lunch at a country club.
“… and I want full satellite monitoring on a continuous basis in a two-point-five-kilometer radius around the White House,” Naomi continued, her voice taking on a hoarse edge from all the talking. “The same Unblinking Eye surveillance that McChrystal used in Iraq when they were hunting Zarqawi.”
“Uh, two point five klicks? Isn’t that a touch arbitrary?” Agent Demme asked, snapping his gum.
“The longest sniper shot in history is two point forty-eight kilometers,” Naomi said. “I’m not eager to have any records broken on my watch.”
“But our guy’s not a dedicated sniper—”
“We don’t know what he isn’t,” she said. “We don’t know what he is. All we know is that one of our highest trained assets is hell-bent on getting Bennett in the crosshairs.”
She steepled her fingertips on the dossier sitting on the polished surface before her. Ridiculously, the tab was redacted, the rectangle of ink blotting out the code name beneath: ORPHAN X .
This paper-thin file that Doug Wetzel had grudgingly released contained a minimum of information, either because that’s all the agencies had or because that’s all they were willing to give up. Evidently the Program was double-blind at every link of the chain, explicitly designed to maximize deniability up and down the command. With the various political messes President Bennett was mired in at the moment, it was clear that his office wasn’t eager to lift the veil any further than was absolutely necessary.
Naomi didn’t trust or like Wetzel. For her to do her job, she’d need more than the names of a few dead associates, a list of possible sightings, some vague details about suspected operations, and a shitty composite sketch generated from the memories of the D.C. cops who’d found themselves overmatched by matcha tea and a handful of salt. She vowed to catch the deputy chief of staff out of the White House on neutral ground and reach an in-person understanding on what she’d require to stop Orphan X.
But for now she needed to work with what she had. As Dad used to say, You get to airtight one brick at a time.
“If this guy has the training they say he does, he’ll know to disguise himself from birds,” someone else chimed in.
“Right,” Naomi said. “That’s why we’re covering all CCTV in Ward 2—key alphabet streets, the Mall, monuments, everything. Priya’s running that team”—a nod to the sole woman of color at the table—“and Willemon’s monitoring all flights, car rentals, train stations, tollbooths, bus stops, correct?”
Bob Willemon gave a wan smile. “Down to every last tour bus.”
Naomi swiveled to the right flank of the table. “Ted, I want facial recognition run on all posted data from all phones in the District—Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, Snapchat, the whole social-media landscape. You never know who we’ll pick up passing through the background of a shot. Reach out to NSA—they’re ahead of us on this with computational power.”
Demme’s square jaw sawed sideways as he went at the gum, building up momentum and confidence. The promotion to SAC had come down to her or Demme, and she’d been better, pure and simple. Seeing her elevated further by presidential decree couldn’t have been easy on his ego. In response he’d started growing out his sideburns and exceeding expectations on the job, one of which was working out nicely.
“So that’s D.C. covered,” Demme said. “What about the rest of the world?”
“I’m working up new advance-team procedures for transport and travel. I’d like your help with that, Demme. I saw your initiatives, and they’re excellent.”
At this he let his palm rasp across his cheek, a flicker behind his eyes showing he felt conflicted about accepting the olive branch. She gave him her most serious stare, the one Dad used to reserve for broken curfews and prospective boyfriends.
Her stare said, I mean what I say. I have no time for charity.
“Happy to,” Demme said.
Naomi flipped open the woefully scant file. No name, no photographs, no fingerprints. “I’ve also ordered sat footage on sites of importance to Orphan X.”
She scanned the partially redacted top page. There was a farmhouse in Arlington where Orphan X had supposedly spent some childhood years. The foster home he was taken from in Baltimore had been demolished last year. Perhaps he’d done some training at Fort Meade. There were a few more proper nouns, also unpromising.
She cleared her throat and added, “Sites of ostensible importance. We don’t have much, but you get to airtight one brick at a time. Orphan X’s primary advantage is that he only has to get it right once. Our reliability is a precondition for his success. Which means we have to be unpredictable. So let’s get to work on it. I’m putting the president’s schedule in motion—”
“No shit.” Director Gonzalez leaned into the room, one hand gripping the doorframe, broad shoulders on tilt. “I heard all about it from Wetzel, that weasel-faced fuck. All the schedule jostling’s raising questions in the press. Rumors of internal problems with the cabinet, Bennett’s not gonna want to see his approval ratings go any lower before midterms, blah-blah-blah. I told him you were trying to keep Bennett alive for the midterms, and that shut him the fuck up in a hurry. So keep at it, Templeton. Ruffle feathers, rattle cages, kick doors. The president’s given you the power, and I have your back.”
The pouches under his eyes shifted. Sometimes they conveyed more emotion than his actual eyes. She dreaded the question before Gonzalez asked it.
“How’s the old man holding up?”
Dad had mentored Gonzalez up through the ranks. Their relationship had evolved over the years, but their mutual affection had remained steady. For a good stretch after Dad retired and before Gonzalez ascended to the highest rank, they’d found a balance as peers, drinking and golfing together, swapping war stories.
And now Gonzalez had unwittingly undercut her authority with a single well-intentioned inquiry. There was an intimacy in the question he would not have presumed to pose at a round table were she a man.
“Doing great, thanks,” she said crisply.
He read her expression, those pouches bunching anew, registering regret. She caught up to herself, seeing through her anger that his motive was concern—concern and heartache—and felt a wash of regret herself.
Gonzalez knocked the door twice in closure and withdrew.
Naomi turned back to the dozen or so inquisitive faces, finding herself, for the first time in three hours, speechless. The mention of her father now, in this building, in this moment, had cut through her like a katana. Here she was projecting his strength while he languished in a facility, deteriorating by the minute, a puddle of flannel pajamas and English Leather. She locked down her face, felt her core tighten.
Demme broke the spell. Rocking forward in his chair, he found his feet, signaling the meeting’s end. “You heard the special agent in charge,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
As the agents broke up, she rose to head to the Director’s Crisis Center next door, where she was due to dry-run a few emergency-operation scenarios. When she looked up, Demme caught her eye across the long oval table.
She nodded her thanks and got on with her day.