“Uh...no,” I said, before I could clamp my stupid mouth shut. My face burned as I realized I'd just overridden my boss in front of the president. Already out on a limb, I finished my thought, hoping it would allow me to dig out of this hole I'd started. “There's still this Cheng Yu meta out there, prowling around on American soil. He tried to kidnap a US citizen.”
Chalke's eyes blazed at me, but the fire died down as she turned to Gondry, smiling sweetly. “Of course we'll pursue every avenue available to us in tracking down this metahuman criminal. I only meant that in terms of wide-reaching diplomatic effects, the case is closed.”
“I wouldn't be so sure,” Ngo said. “The story had already leaked just before I stepped in here.”
President Gondry's eyes lit up, and he thumped his fist against the wooden arm of the chair. “Already? DAMMIT!” He was on his feet in a moment, behind his desk seconds later, and hitting the button on his phone. “Janice! Call the press secretary down here. Five – no – ten minutes.” He clicked it off halfway through her affirmative reply.
The president drew up behind his desk, staring past all of us to the fireplace on the opposite wall. “Secretary of State Ngo...Director Chalke...thank you both for your briefing.” He nodded to each of them in turn, and I took it as a clear sign of dismissal.
They did, too, gathering their crap together as they got up. I moved to follow them, figuring I was too much of a low-level peon to rate a GTFO announcement by name, and was halfway to the door when the president's voice caught up to me.
“Ms. Nealon...would you kindly wait a moment? Please?”
Chalke sent me a look that, being in full view of the president, was much more veiled than the ones she'd sent me earlier. She disappeared out the door a moment later, very casually.
The message got through anyway: Shut up.
Then the door shut, and I was left alone with the president.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
This wasn't how I'd envisioned my day going.
A kidnapping attempt and corpse inspections followed by a leisurely jog across the Virginia countryside in the morning. Fisticuffs with a Chinese meta who had beetle armor and fire eyes in the early afternoon. Lunchtime meeting with the President of the United States.
What the hell was I going to do for a follow-up? Tea with the Queen of England?
Nah. She was an ocean away and far too busy to deal with my dumb ass.
“Thank you for staying,” the president said, coming out from behind his desk. I stayed frozen like a statue, part of me hoping that Gondry was as dense as Harmon had always said, and that maybe he'd just forget I was here. “Come.” He pointed to the couch, as he returned to his earlier chair. “Sit.”
“Yessir,” I mumbled, doing so.
“I know you and I have had a tangled history,” President Gondry said, taking this opportunity to pick at a loose thread on his pinstriped pants.
That was one way to put him sending every US government agency after me with everything they had. “Yes, sir,” I said, and sounded a little strangled to my own ears.
“But I mean you no ill will,” he said. “I can be stubborn at times. Too stubborn.” He chuckled under his breath. “My late wife said as much, often. But I trust the evidence of my own eyes, and I saw for myself in that footage of what you did in Eden Prairie that – well, we were wrong about you. Your actions in Revelen further proved it. And when I dug into the record like a good academic – like I should have to begin with, instead of just trusting the yes men and women like your boss there,” I glanced up to find him almost winking at me with a slight smile, “well, I found that you've done a lot of good, even when we were chasing you with everything we had.”
“It takes, uh,” I cleared my throat, “it takes a lot of guts to, uhm, say that. Thank you.” My cheeks were redder than a second-year student of Marxist theory.
The president stared me down. “All that said...you know we're six months out from an election.”
“It would hard to miss the non-stop campaigning and political news, yes, sir,” I said, wishing that my meta powers extended to cheek redness control. “No matter how hard I try.”
Gondry chuckled. “Are you one of those rare apolitical types, then? Rare in DC, I mean. Probably quite a bit more common outside the Beltway.”
“I try to stay out of it,” I said. “I've got my ideas. Principles, I guess. But I don't like politics. It's too...” I shrugged. “Pick an adjective, it probably fits.”
Gondry nodded slowly. “I know what you mean. There are a lot of days, especially since I took this office, when I wish I'd stayed a lowly college professor. But I'm in it now, thanks to...” His eyes flicked up to me. “...Well, you, if it's true what they say about my predecessor.”
I felt a choking sensation in my throat. “Uhm. Uh. Sir...?”
“He was powered, wasn't he?” Gondry said, watching me carefully.
I nodded slowly. “And powerful. But I didn't–”
He waved me off. “I don't want to hear about it. I've seen enough of the evidence with my own eyes to know that he was up to things that I would never want to be compelled to talk about. Best we leave Gerry Harmon missing forever, lest some very uncomfortable questions prompt a panic. And regardless...he left me in this office, and...I don't entirely hate it.” He stared at the carpet, the great seal of the USA. “I mean, I do hate it, often. I know exactly what you mean by your disdain of politics. I had grand ideas about the good I could do in this office, but since I've inhabited it, I feel all I do is chase my own tail. Still...I want another bite at the apple.” He looked up at me and his eyes were as resolute as...well, his desk, I guess. “This China business...it has the potential to jeopardize that.”
I felt a deep twinge of discomfort in my belly. “Sir...are you asking me to shitcan this investigation?”
He looked down, unable to meet my gaze. “No. No, I wouldn't do that. You need to catch that dangerous meta, regardless of what he might say when you get ahold of him.” Here he looked back at me. “But...if he resists you...”
I couldn't hide my cringe. “I'm sure I'll react in my usual, stunningly lethal fashion, sir.”
“This conversation makes you uncomfortable?” the president asked. “Good. You still have a moral compass, then. So many in this town don't.”
“Sir?”
“The realpolitik in this city is stunning,” Gondry said, rising and returning to look out the windows by his desk. “The pageantry. Your boss, for instance? She cares more about seeing me re-elected than seeing your case get closed.” He turned his head to me and smiled. “I like that you still care about the justice of the thing.”
“It's...all I've got,” I said quietly. “Sir."
“You should work on that,” he said, still smiling. His phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“The guest you requested has arrived,” his secretary said through the speaker.
“Send him in.” The president came around the desk again. “I trust you'll do the right thing in this case, but I hope you don't mind if I try and manage the potential political fallout, given the circumstances.”
I was still pretty stiff, and had risen to my feet as soon as the president had. “Uh...I can try, but political sensitivities are not exactly my forte.”
President Gondry's smile turned quite knowing. “Oh, I'm well aware.” The door to the Oval Office clicked open, and in walked a man in an expensive suit, whose every detail of his appearance was perfectly manicured, hair graying and slicked back. His smile went well beyond “knowing” and into the realm of “ungodly smug.”
The worst part? I knew the bastard on sight, though we'd never actually met in person.
“Agent Nealon,” President Gondry said, shaking the man's hand, “I'd like to introduce you to one of my advisors, and a man you'll be working very closely with on this.”
“You don't have to,” I said, making my way over and offering my hand to the bastard standing in front of him, smiling smugly at me. “I
'm familiar with Mr. Bilson.”
“So nice to finally meet in the flesh, though,” Bilson said, taking my hand in his and giving me a quick shake, smile never once wavering. “I mean...I feel like I've known you forever.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The president's message had been loud and clear before he'd dismissed us out of the Oval: “Do what you have to, but try and let Bilson here manage any fallout that comes from your pursuit of justice.” His exact words.
Bilson let me know his interpretation as we walked out past the secretaries. “I can't tell you how pleased I am to be working with you on this project. I really feel like you'll be able to contribute significantly to this endeavor.”
I raised an eyebrow but held my tongue as I scanned the area. Director Chalke was nowhere in sight, to my surprise. She must have considered me not worth waiting on. I was sure I'd hear from her later.
“I have to warn you, though,” Bilson said, hanging onto my elbow like a parasite as I made my way through the halls, trying to find the exit from the West Wing. I had a pretty good memory, so I was fairly certain I was on the right track even though his blathering was a constant distraction. “This is my first FBI investigation, so forgive me if I'm not up on all the lingo.”
“I'll brief you as much as I'm allowed,” I said cautiously, “but I don't think we'll be 'working together' on this so much as you'll be batting cleanup if anything goes awry.”
Bilson let out a friendly chuckle. “No.”
I frowned. “'No' what?”
“I think you've misunderstood,” Bilson said, stopping me by stopping himself in the middle of a surprisingly narrow corridor. It was like this place had been built for Lilliputians. It certainly didn't look as roomy and spacious as it had always appeared on TV. “My role in this...it's unlimited.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”
“I'm not your janitor,” Bilson said, still smiling. Sonofabitch was unflappable. “I'm not going to be 'cleaning up' after you. I'm going to be a fully involved partner in both the decision-making process through every turn of the investigation and in the press aspects.” He sidled closer. “The good news for both of us, is that this opportunity presents immense advantages.”
I kept myself from backing away from him like he was toxic, but only by tapping deeply into that well of self-control that I was cultivating. “Oh?” was all I managed to get out. Because that well was not very deep, and I was squeezing my hands tightly behind me to keep from bitchslapping him.
“I have connections in DC,” Bilson said, teeth just crying to be knocked out. “These are assets at your disposal. Need information about Chinese intelligence? I know a lady with experience. Want to know more about what your college professor victim's work life was like? I have contacts in Georgetown we can talk to in both administration and student affairs. By the same token, I have many connections with MPDC if you need some behind the scenes juice there.”
He sidled just a little closer. Not too close, credit to him. “But this has to go my way, you see. Not only because your boss, when you ask her, is going to make explicit what the president couldn't in our meeting just now. But because the president is in the middle of a re-election campaign I'm up to my eyeballs in quarterbacking behind the scenes, and we cannot afford to throw any spanners in the works.” He brightened. “You understand?”
I drew a deep breath through my nose, let it out through my mouth, and felt like a bull in a cartoon where you could see the wind blowing out. Chill. “I think so,” I said, “but I will have to double check with Director Chalke.”
“Of course,” Bilson said. That smile. “Naturally.” He inclined his head a little. “After you get things settled with her, come on up to my offices on K Street.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me.
I took it without cramming it up his nose, along with my fist. I didn't look at it, though. Because I was still envisioning my fist up his nose. “Thank you,” I said, strangely flat.
“See you soon,” he said, and disappeared past me as I stood there in the hallway, pondering how much, really, I was growing as a person these days.
CHAPTER TWENTY
To my complete lack of surprise, Director Chalke confirmed everything Bilson had told me and then some.
“You're at his disposal,” she said, probably being shuttled back to the Hoover Building in the back of her chauffeured car while I sat behind the wheel of my agency SUV, staring out at the sunny sky and pondering the state of my life.
“Just so I'm clear,” I said, closing my eyes as I prepared to eat the heaping gob of shit she was placing upon my plate, “you're putting an FBI agent under the command of a civilian authority?”
“No, you're under my authority,” she said in a clipped tone. “But I'm telling you to answer to him because he's looking out for my boss. See how that chain of command works? The president to me to Bilson to you. Surely that's straightforward enough for you to follow, given what's at stake here.”
I warred with myself for a long moment, keeping the silence between us. Chalke didn't break it, either, for whatever reason. “Understood,” I said at last, with a voice probably so full of regret it oozed out of my pores.
“Glad we're clear,” Chalke said, and as was her wont, hung up without another word.
I squeezed both hands on the SUV's steering wheel. I was headed back to my office, and stuck in the rising tide of DC traffic.
The FBI's main offices in the Hoover building had been too crammed to allow for our scrappy little division to find a place to rest our keyboards, so the General Services Administration had procured a disused building that had once held offices of the Department of the Interior for our use. It was a ten thousand square foot office space and we used approximately a thousand square feet of it, which left the three of us – me, Holloway, and Hilton – rattling around like a BB in a tin can.
Furthermore, there was no motor pool, armory, or any other services available on our little campus, including a receptionist, so we leaned heavily on voicemail, our cell phones, and our own ingenuity, which was, in some of our cases (Hilton's), more limited than others.
“All hail the conquering hero,” Xavier Holloway said as I passed through the little anteroom space into our sprawling, damned near empty offices. “How's the view from the White House, Ms. Elite?”
“Heavily obscured thanks to the Secret Service trying to cut down on sniping opportunities,” I said, breezing in and tossing my jacket on the back of my cloth-upholstered desk chair. It was old and beaten, probably from the 90's, furniture that had been in some government storehouse until we'd come in here with a need for furnishings. I plopped down in it, observing that my blouse was speckled with sweat from the day's activities. “Anything happen while I was gone?” I looked around for Hilton, but didn't see her, which meant she was probably in the bathroom. Or already enjoying her suspension for the shooting investigation. Though she tended to take long breaks since we'd moved here, which I attributed to us not having an on-site boss. And also not much to do.
I assiduously avoided ever following Hilton into the bathroom, or even using it at the same time as her, because, being only two of us women in this office, she always used the opportunity for a girl-talk powwow of the sort I absolutely hated and felt I could only barely escape with my life. I'd even gone so far as to use the men's room when she was buried in the women's and I had made sure Holloway wasn't coming.
“We got a whole lot of nothing from locals and our own people on scene at Save Much,” Holloway said. “Passports are bagged and being dusted for prints.” He seemed to be looking down a checklist. “No reports of your fire-eyed beetle guy–”
“Firebeetle Bailey. That's my code name for him.”
Holloway raised a slightly fuzzier-than-necessary eyebrow. Dude needed a pluck. “I feel like that's not your best work, but okay. Here's something: we sent out agents to the dealership where that van the kidnappers used was purchased. Salesman said they b
ought another vehicle at the same time. Late model Volvo. We're getting a warrant for the GPS, hoping to track it down.”
“Excellent,” I breathed, logging into my computer. “I love it when leads fall into my lap.”
Holloway was quiet for a second. “How else might they present themselves? If not falling into your lap?”
“Kicking me in the ass, usually,” I said, pulling up the FindIt search engine and typing in Russ Bilson.
A ton of news articles popped up. I'd read a few of them in the past, but I really had nothing else going and figured I'd do at least a little surface-level research before I popped over to Bilson's offices.
“You really think the government of China is behind this kidnapping?” Holloway asked, just as I was delving into a profile of Bilson titled “The King of Backstage Politics.” It was just as hammy and overwrought as the title might have suggested, filled with lines like, “He slides behind his desk like a shark fin through black, night waters.” I checked to see which site I'd landed on and had a moment's revulsion: Flashforce.net, my least favorite address on the whole web.
“What?” I looked up from my browser window, feeling dirty that I'd clicked on a Flashforce link. If there was any site that had tried harder to destroy me during my exile than Flashforce, I didn't know of it. “China? I have no idea. It's possible.”
Holloway took this as a sign I was willing to have a chat, because he plopped down on my desk. “They do some dirty things, the PRC government.”
“You're getting hemorrhoid cream smell on my desk.”
He made a grunt of frustration and stood back up, crossing his arms. It was a mark of how much I'd needled Holloway over the seven months or so we'd been working together that he didn't retreat from that shot, just ignored it and went on. “You know what I mean?” he asked.
“Why don't you enlighten me?” I asked, stealing a glance back at the Flashforce story on Bilson.
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