He was the un-Nixon.
Before law school in his early days as a special agent for the Department of Defense, he’d learned to exert control over functions of his body he’d previously thought uncontrollable. This skill had served him well, then and now. He’d never been photographed with a sheen across his forehead or sweat stains darkening a dress shirt. He didn’t stammer or make quick, darting movements with his eyes.
Most telling, his hands never shook.
The American people required that in this day and age. A leader with a steady hand. A leader who knew how to sell image, his and theirs. They never noticed the minutiae that projected this competence, at least not consciously, but they registered it somewhere deep in their lizard brains.
That’s what you appealed to. What you targeted. What you ruled.
The lizard brains.
Instinct. Survival. Fear.
He studied his staff through the wire-frame eyeglasses he’d selected to convey authority and a certain remoteness. Right now his people were at odds over a housing bill that was threatening to blow up in the Senate and, more importantly, on CNN. For the last five minutes, he’d listened with predatory repose, but now it was time to strike.
He cleared his throat pointedly.
The debate ceased.
Before he could render his judgment, one of three heavy black phones rang on his desk. When he noted which one, he rose from the couch, crossed the rug featuring his seal in monochromatic sculpting, and picked up the receiver with his notably steady hand.
He put his back to the room, a signal, and the murmured discussion resumed behind him.
“Is it done?” he asked.
Orphan Y replied, “No.”
Bennett waited two seconds before replying. Two seconds was a long time in the life of a conversation, particularly when one half of that conversation was emanating from the Oval Office.
Bennett was out of earshot of the others, but he lowered his voice anyway. “This cannot get to NSA, CIA, or State. That’s why I assigned you my own personally vetted men. It gets out of your hands, it could get out of mine. And that is unacceptable.”
Van Sciver said, “I completely—”
Bennett took off his eyeglasses and set them on the blotter. “When I ran the DoD, we had a saying. ‘It takes wet work to do a clean job.’ I need this to be watertight. I cannot have him out there. He may not know why, but he’s the only remaining connective tissue. Someone can connect the dots, and those dots lead through X. Without him they’re just dots.” Bennett allowed another two-second pause. “Clean out the connective tissue or I’ll consider you part of it.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Bennett set the receiver down gently on the cradle that sat on the weighty Resolute desk. A quick internal inventory showed his pulse to be normal, his breathing as calm as ever.
He turned around to face his staff. “Now, where were we?”
62
Not Easy
Still cool from the shower, Evan stood before his dresser in his boxer briefs. He opened the top drawer. Identical dark Levi’s 501s on one side and on the other, tactical-discreet cargo pants. They were sharply folded, stacked so neatly they looked machine-cut. He pulled on a pair of cargo pants and snugged the Kydex high-guard holster on the waistband, relieved to be wearing a normal-size pistol again. Then he slid two backup magazines into the streamlined inner pockets. They gave no bulge.
The next drawer down housed ten unworn gray V-neck T-shirts. He put one on, tucked it behind his hip holster. In the closet he grabbed the top shoe box from a tiered tower in the corner. He changed out his Original S.W.A.T. boots regularly, ensuring that he couldn’t be tracked by microfibers or soil residue trapped in the tread. Nine Woolrich shirts hung in parallel, magnetic buttons clamped. They were straight from the shipping package, though he’d cut off the price tags and ironed out the wrinkles before hanging them. As he donned the nearest shirt and snapped the buttons shut, he thought about what he was planning to do just a few hours from now.
He was going to walk into the den of the world’s most dangerous gang.
Innumerable variables, a risk level too high to assess. That was why he needed every other facet to be locked down, predictable, second-nature. He knew each contour, thread, and operation spec of his gear. Every magazine had been painstakingly validated on a desert range, tested to ensure that it dropped from the well without the slightest hitch.
A passel of fresh Victorinox watch fobs waited in a hinged wooden box. He’d just clipped one to the first belt loop on the left side when it occurred to him that he’d dressed for the mission and not for the preceding dinner at Mia’s. He was due downstairs in twenty-three minutes.
Showing up to a DA’s condo with illegally concealed firearms didn’t strike him as the most prudent idea.
He went back into the bedroom, took off the hip holster, and then removed the magazines from his hidden pockets. The Victorinox fob seemed vaguely militaristic, so he unclipped it and set it aside. The cargo pants and S.W.A.T. boots were low-profile enough, but a wary eye might find them aggressive. He kicked them off, stood there in his boxer briefs and Woolrich button-up.
Now he was questioning the shirt. Tactical magnetic buttons—Mia couldn’t possibly notice those. Could she?
He took the shirt off. Then the one under that.
Down to boxer briefs.
This wasn’t going well.
There was a knock on his door. Joey called through, “Wanna try that meditating stuff before you go?”
Evan said, “Yes, please.”
*
Evan and Joey sat facing each other in the loft. After Operation Getting Dressed for Dinner, he figured he needed to meditate more than she did. He’d thrown his clothes back on hastily and headed up to meet her in the loft.
She assumed an erect yogi’s posture. “Back in Richmond you told David Smith, ‘You can’t help people more than they want to help themselves.’”
Evan said, “Yes.”
He could see that it was taking everything she had to get the words out.
“I want to help myself,” she said. “I want to wind up better.”
“Okay.”
“Clearly I suck at meditation.”
“That’s not clear. It might be doing exactly what it should be doing.”
“Walk me through how to do it again?”
Jack had taught Evan proper procedures for everything from fieldstripping a pistol to readying for meditation. He started to haul out the directives now when he caught himself and thought of the new Commandment he’d invented for himself—and for Joey.
Don’t fall in love with Plan A.
She was waiting on him, puzzled by his delay.
“You know what?” he said. “Maybe we’ve been approaching this wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sit however’s comfortable. However makes you feel safe.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know.”
“Then figure it out.”
She looked around. Then she rolled her shoulders. Cracked her jaw. She crossed her legs and uncrossed them. “Can I go to my couch?”
“You can do anything you want.”
She got up on the couch, hugged her pillow, pulled her knees in to her chest. She took a cushion and pressed it against her shins. She put another against her exposed side, building a burrow. “Is this weird?”
“There’s no such thing as weird.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
“Does that feel all right?”
She nodded, two quick jerks of her head.
“Just focus on your breath now, and let your body talk to you.”
He closed his eyes. As the first minute passed, he acquainted himself with the silence. He barely had time to narrow his focus when she broke. The first shuddering breath and then the storm.
She stayed hugging her knees, curled into herself, sobbing. He waited for her to get up and stomp out like before. She didn’t. She rocked herself and cried until the pillow was dark with tears, until her hair stuck to her face, until he thought she’d never stop.
He sat still, being with her without being with her. After a time it occurred to him that might not be enough.