Fred’s life in the Washington area consisted of a small triangle that sometimes went from a small high rise apartment in Alexandria along Seminary Road to the Pentagon in Arlington to the White House along Pennsylvania Avenue, and that was it. He had direct orders to never walk down the long halls in the Old Executive Office Building or the Capital or anywhere else he might be recognized. He never went out at night when he was in D.C. and the apartment where he stayed was kept clean and stocked full of food by an unseen member. He was never detected and slid easily in and out of town along the interstate.
While it was true that technology had made it possible for either side to locate and follow anyone, they first had to be aware they wanted to and Fred was not on Management’s list. It was an impossible task to keep track of everyone and Fred’s Richmond persona had made it clear that he wasn’t valuable to the Circle and therefore to the other side. They never noticed his occasional weekend trips.
His wife, Maureen, was a Circle operative as well, put in place to give him cover. It was an arranged marriage of sorts but over the eighteen years they had been together they had grown to respect each other and were close friends. In all those years, however, they had never discussed the Circle or their real purpose, never slipping even when their heads lay inches from each other.
There was no mention to anyone when Fred slid out of town. On those weekends when Fred was gone, Maureen made a point of being seen puttering around the garden and stayed close to home. She joined only the groups that she was directed to in the encoded messages such as the neighborhood Bunko game or the large Episcopalian church, St. Thomas located just down Pouncey Tract Road that was full of young families who were eager to get ahead.
She had been trained well and knew her purpose out in public was to establish common routines and tell stories about Fred in order to reinforce the outline that had been so carefully created right in front of everyone.
Both of them were filling out shadows of a suburban life and in that sense Maureen had the worst of it. There was never a break from the role she had been directed to play out until further notice.
Her second, underlying mission was to keep track of her friend, Wallis and their young son, Ned but over the years there had been very little to report.
Fred sometimes looked at Maureen and wondered if she minded or had she slipped somewhere in all of these years into the role so completely that she didn’t know anything else anymore. The thought never lasted long though; it would have been a distraction.
Four hundred and thirty two steps, a short turn and then back, three hundred and eight steps, turn again all the while still heading straight. Two hundred and two more steps to get from the East Portico of the White House to the small elevator hidden behind the folding partition that was the official separation between the East and West wings. Each time a small distraction was timed to take place among the Secret Service who helped to turn away the few faces that may have wondered who he was and why he had access to the First Family’s elevator right next to the old winding stairs that were used by past presidents such as Lincoln or Coolidge. Both lead up to the private quarters.
The family quarters was one of the only secure places left where only the team that held the presidential office knew exactly what was happening at any given moment.
To ensure discretion, whenever an administration changed sides every cook, every valet, every maid was let go and an entire new team was put into place. Even with that, extra precautions were taken whenever Bowers walked the halls.
Sixteen steps from the elevator to the front sitting room.
“Mr. President.”
“Mr. Bowers, so good to see you, again.” President Ronald Haynes was resting back against the cream colored couch. His famous head of thick, snow white hair stood out against the square linen cushion.
“At your service, sir.” It was always the same greeting.
“Please, take a seat.”
Bowers sat down on the edge of the Queen Anne wing chair and recited the information from memory. None of the short missives, the Special Compartmentalized Intelligence that Fred brought to the President were ever put down on paper.
“Operation Kirchenfenster has begun,” said Fred.
“Ah, they do love their German names, even now, don’t they?” said the President with a thin smile. “The Stained Glass Operation is again in play. We will work to confuse and deceive rather than come at them directly. But there’s a difference this time, isn’t there?”
“Yes, sir. We are at war.” Bowers said it calmly and evenly, his voice never wavering.
“Yes, so it’s official, then. A quiet war, though. Most of the people who walk the streets will never know. They may feel the repercussions but they’ll never know what caused it all. It’s very interesting, really. Any head of government, anywhere in the world really only gets to declare something is a war after those above him give him the go-ahead.” Fred sat motionless waiting for a direct question.
“We look so powerful to the general public. Does it have an official name, this war?” asked the President.