Time to test that theory.
The Equitable Services command center was as busy as ever. Shifts ran twenty-four hours, and day or night analysts keyed in their data, argued over meaning and relevance, and updated the video wall that showed every action in the country. There were more oranges and reds overlaid today than yesterday, measurements of the nation’s growing tension. The bank of monitors played cable news, two channels dedicated to that evening’s reopening of the stock market, a third showed a conservative pundit drawing on a chalkboard, the fourth running an earlier press conference in which a reporter buttonholed President Walker about the New Canaan Holdfast in Wyoming. The president looked tired but handled himself well, reminding the world that the gifted were also American citizens, and that the NCH was legally purchased corporate land.
Cooper headed for the stairs. Behind him, a woman called his name. He ignored her and started up the stairs. Valerie West hurried after him. “Cooper!”
He turned his head but didn’t stop. “I’m busy.”
“No, listen, one of the taps turned something up. You’ve got to hear—”
“Later.”
“But—”
He whirled. “I said later, okay? I don’t know how much simpler I can make it.”
Valerie reacted as if slapped. “Yes, sir.”
Cooper hurried up the stairs, one hand trailing the railing. A balcony ringed the command center, executive offices, and conference rooms. Director Drew Peters’s office was mostly glass, allowing him to keep an eye on the video wall and the activity below. Now, however, the blinds were closed. His assistant, Maggie, a stylish woman in her early fifties with a pleasant smile and ice water in her veins, looked up as Cooper approached. She’d been with Peters for two decades, and her experience and security clearance made her more executive officer than secretary.
“I need to see him.”
“He’s on a call. Have a seat.”
“Now, Maggie. Please.” He let some of the turmoil show on his face.
She examined him calmly, then turned to her keyboard, typed something. A moment later there was a ding of the returned instant message. “Go ahead, Agent Cooper.”
The office was tidy and tastefully lit, small for a man of Peters’s standing. There was a couch in one corner under the de rigueur framed portrait of President Henry Walker. But it was the other photographs that always caught Cooper. Instead of the predictable dick-measuring images of Peters with world leaders, the walls were decorated with shots of active targets. Pride of place was given to a black-and-white photo of John Smith holding a microphone and addressing a crowd on the Mall, leaning into the microphone like an evangelist.
From behind the desk, Peters gestured at a chair and continued speaking into the phone. “I understand that, Senator.” A pause. “It means just that. I understand you.” Peters rolled his eyes. “Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have sold him half the state, should you?” Another pause. “Yes, well, you’re certainly welcome to do that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.” He hung up, pulled off the slender earpiece, and dropped it on his desk. “Our distinguished senator from Wyoming. Erik Epstein bought twenty-three thousand miles of his state, an area the size of West Virginia, and the good senator didn’t trouble himself to wonder why.” The director shook his head. “The world would be a better place if people stopped voting for folksy candidates they could have a beer with and started voting for people smarter than them.” Peters leaned back in his chair and looked at Cooper quizzically. “What’s on your mind?”
“I need help, Drew.” In public it was always Director or sir, but the intensity of their job had taken things beyond the merely professional. Peters was a cool one, maintained decorum, but it wasn’t every agent he referred to as son.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s personal.”
“All right.”