So they were stuck in the same residential tower, nine floors apart, making a continuous effort to fight off an attraction.
He could feel her breath on the side of his neck as he took in the delightful smell of her. He noted a different fragrance—not lemongrass but lavender.
“You changed your lotion,” he said.
She pulled back and looked at him.
Embarrassment swept through him, a hot tide.
To cover, he gave an uncharacteristic one-shoulder shrug. “I notice everything.”
She kept a straight face, but amusement filled her eyes. “Oh, do you? Like what?”
Like the birthmark by your left temple. Like that you chew your left cheek when you’re concentrating. Like that your eye color changes depending on the color of your shirt.
He stepped back from her.
“Like the seven security cameras on this side of the building,” he said. “Like your briefcase is unsnapped, showing the file tab inside, Oscar Esposito, case number PA338724. Like the make and model of the past dozen cars that have driven past.”
At the last, she raised her eyebrows.
“Reflection off the door,” he said.
She nodded, still amused. “So lemongrass to lavender might as well be a blinking neon sign. I’m surprised you could focus with your senses being assailed like that.”
The front door opened now, and Peter flew back out. “Mom, Mom—can I use the mail key?”
Evan took advantage of the distraction to slip away before Mia could continue her cross-examination.
16
A Bucket of Warm Spit
The President’s Dining Room was a quaint piece of shit. It had once been a bedroom where Theodore Roosevelt’s daughter Alice had lived; she’d even had her appendix hacked out beneath this pale yellow ceiling. After first daughter Helen Taft, the Coolidge boys, and a host of other presidential offspring had done whatever the hell kids do in bedrooms, it had been converted into a family room where Truman had lounged humorlessly behind his wire-rims, restrained and self-important. Then Jackie had overhauled the joint as Kennedys did, plastering the walls with antique wallpaper depicting battle scenes from the American Revolution. Johnson and Nixon, man’s men and assholes to the marrow, had left it untouched, but a passel of Fords, Carters, Reagans, Bushes, and Clintons had fought it out ever since until the room had lowest-common-denominatored its way into its present state, where bland cream wall coverings and frilly valances prevailed.
Jonathan Bennett had no kids, thank God, and no wife. He didn’t give a two-minute fuck about design, leaving such matters in the hands of his underlings.
In the few seconds per twenty-four hours he had alone, he wanted to use the dining room to dine. And that meant eating select meals procured from prescreened suppliers, transported to the White House by the Secret Service itself, unpacked and prepared by chefs and food handlers with security clearances.
The proverbial “they” said that Bennett was the most paranoid president since Nixon. Perhaps that was because he had accrued the most enemies since Tricky Dick flashed his preternaturally long fingers in the V salute and banged drunkenly around the Oval Office.
And besides, as the tired aphorism went, they can’t call you paranoid if you’re right. Given Bennett’s decades at the Department of Defense, he knew this better than the politician saps who’d occupied the West Wing before him.
He knew what was out there.
He’d played in those sandboxes.
Hell, he’d put the action figures into those sandboxes. He’d used them to play his own games.
He smeared foie gras onto crostini now and washed it down with a two-thousand-dollar Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Richebourg Grand Cru.
Orphan X was out there somewhere, living rough, holed up like the international war criminal he’d been designated as since he’d left the Program. That was all well and good. Bennett sat in his fortress at the nucleus of power in the known universe, enjoying the finest pleasures life could offer.
He heard high heels tapping and smelled the Hermès perfume before she stepped into view.
He took another bite, enjoying his last moment of solitude.
“Jonathan,” she said.
He closed his eyes, let the full-bodied burgundy burn a delightful trail down his throat. Then he turned to face his vice president.
Victoria Donahue-Carr was by most accounts a formidable woman, highly capable and—at fifty-four—in the political sweet spot as far as age was concerned. Old enough to be considered an adult with enough experience under her sensible pantsuit belt to lead the free world should the need arise. And young enough to preempt any charges of being too long in the tooth to run once Bennett had served out his second term.
She leaned against the chair opposite his but didn’t sit, her jacket bunching beneath her crossed arms. She’d sworn off horizontal stripes after their first term due to midsection spread. Once shapely, she’d turned into an obstinate block of a woman, which Bennett supposed was a fine metaphor for the deterioration of their relationship.
He read her face, her body posture, picking up a host of nonverbal tells that signaled discomfort.
“You’re here to discuss the congressional subpoena that’s rumored to make an appearance next week,” he told her.
“I am.”
“I have executive immunity. They can’t compel me to appear at an investigative hearing.”
“Let’s think this through, Jonathan. Yes, you can claim executive privilege. But the investigation is centered on activities that predate your time in office. They have nothing to do with the presidency itself. Which means you’ll be hard-pressed to claim immunity.”
Donahue-Carr was a former constitutional lawyer and never tired of reminding him about it.
He swirled his wine, checked its legs.
“The constitutional demands of due process of the law are going to outweigh executive privilege here,” she continued. “This isn’t some penny-ante case, Jonathan. It’s a multibillion-dollar investigation. And leaving questions unanswered—questions about relationships with defense contractors—we can’t afford that.”
“Careful, Vicky, you sound like you believe what you’re reading on the Huffington Post.”
“Wilson, Truman, Ford, TR—all of them testified before Congress,” she said. “Even fucking Lincoln.”
She was growing exasperated. Exasperated was good. It made people ineffective and careless. He noted that she was gripping the back of the chair. Still, he did not invite her to sit.
“Voluntarily,” he said calmly. “They appeared voluntarily.” He took another sip. “I can ignore a subpoena.”
“Can,” she said. “But shouldn’t. There’s talk of impeachment.”
“Impeachment.” He allowed himself a rare chuckle. “It didn’t matter for Andrew Johnson. Didn’t matter for Clinton. And it won’t matter for me. Impeachment of the president of the United States has a perfect record: oh for two.”
“The sample size is hardly reassuring.”
He set down his fork and his knife, streaked with organ meat. “When I first took office, they were serving on the Reagans’ china pattern. Bold red border rimmed with a gold band. I found it too … obvious. So I went with the Wilson service here.” He picked up his plate and tilted it so the food slid off and plopped onto the tablecloth. He displayed the smudged face of the china. “The first one to be manufactured in the United States.”
Donahue-Carr took in the sight.
“You know what both plates have in common?” he asked.
“The Presidential Seal,” she said.
“That’s right,” he said. “In case I forget who I am.” He set down the plate, thumbed the outer band of matte gold encrusted with stars and stripes. “The thing is? I don’t forget. Not for a single moment since I put my hand on that Bible. Ask a dozen people what the president’s job is and you’ll get a dozen answers. But above all else, the job of the president is to demonstrate
order. To maintain security. To project power. That keeps citizens from the realm of chaos. It keeps them from having to contemplate the realm of chaos. It keeps them happy and industrious, minding the laws of the land and paying their taxes and letting the grown-ups do what needs to be done. Having the president hauled before Congress undermines those American necessities.”
“I’m not sure you’re aware of just how bad public sentiment is, Jonathan. You’re balanced on a seesaw right now. One step the wrong way and the whole thing tilts. There’s only so much we can sustain.”
“We?” He looked up at her. “Because I’m feeling like I’m the one doing all the sustaining these days, Vicky. So when you say there’s only so much we can sustain, do you mean our ticket? Or our party?”
“I mean the country.”
As soon as the words escaped, he saw the regret writ large on her face. The wrinkles around her eyes had rearranged themselves, her lips taut and bloodless.
So there it was. He’d pushed her buttons and forced an outburst, and the truth was laid bare. She’d shown that her loyalty, already worn down from the attrition of the past years, had grown dangerously thin.
Helpful data.
He couldn’t stretch the fabric of his influence so tightly that it gave way. And judging from the expression on his vice president’s face, it was reaching that point. If she turned on him, the whole house of cards would collapse.
“I’ll take your counsel under advisement, Vicky,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
She started out.
“John Nance Garner said the vice presidency isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit,” Bennett said. “It’s likely apocryphal, but hell, you catch the drift. I don’t think that’s a fair characterization of the office. Do you?”
Donahue-Carr cleared her throat. “No, I don’t.”
“After all,” Bennett said, “you’ve done your job for me. You delivered Pennsylvania twice. And we squeezed just enough mileage out of that one-eighth of you that’s Venezuelan to get over the hump with the Hispanics. Didn’t we?”
The rims of her nostrils reddened, but she held her composure admirably. “We did.”
“The unions have your respect. That proved helpful. And your track record gave me cover against concerns that I was in bed with Wall Street. You’re pretty but not threatening. That helped bring men to the polls while not putting women off. I owe you for that as well.”
When he slid his chair out, it made a scuffing sound on the square-patterned rug. He stood, set his napkin beside his plate. “What do all those benefits you offer have in common?”
Her breathing had quickened, the rise of her chest visible. “I don’t know.”
“They’re all in the past. I’ve won both of my elections already. You’d do well to remain useful to me in the future.”
Her nod was more like a tremor. “I understand, Mr. President.”
She exited, her footfall quicker than before.
17
Stray Dogs
Evan dined a few blocks from Castle Heights at a restaurant specializing in “New American” cuisine, a designation he found simultaneously meaningless and redundant. Sitting at the patio’s edge, he ordered a whole branzino roasted in a parchment wrap with a side of steamed kale. Though the bar offerings were extensive, none of the vodkas rose to his palate, so he opted for Pellegrino, which he drank garnished with a wedge of lime.
It was a consummate Angeleno night—warm edging into cool, neither too dry nor too humid, a soothing breeze. Looking into his glass, he pictured Jonathan Bennett’s face swirling behind the bubbles and wondered what the president was doing at this very moment across the breadth of the continent. Readying battle plans of his own? Gathering intel on the other wayward Orphans so they could be put down like stray dogs?
Sipping from his glass, Evan registered the sting of betrayal as something physical, a knife between the ribs. He was reviled by the country he’d served, unwanted and deemed not worthy of living, hunted on the authority of orders issued at the highest level.
They had made him who he was and then found their creation to be unacceptable.
His pleasures now were simple. Using his skills to help those not merely in need but also worthy. And sipping sparkling water alfresco on a glorious California night.
He engaged in a quiet sitting meditation, timing his inhalation, doubling the count for his exhalation. And again.
The Fourth Commandment: Never make it personal.
This would be a mission like any other.
Except infinitely harder.
He checked the RoamZone, confirming that the display showed no missed calls, which brought a wave of relief.
He settled back in his chair, scanning the restaurant. Eating by himself gave him the freedom to study everything around him even more closely. One of the regulars, an older woman, sat alone in her usual booth. Stiff tweed suit, face done up, cell phone on the table. She drank a single glass of white wine with dinner every time. She always overtipped. The phone never rang.
She broke his heart ten different ways.
He glanced away so as not to be caught staring and noticed a homeless man stumble up the sidewalk with the aid of a crutch. Just beyond the patio, the man sat, slumped against a parking meter. He was missing a leg below the knee. His battered cardboard sign read HOMELESS VETEREN WITH PTSD IM NOT ASHAMED ANYMORE BUT NEED HELP.
His head was lowered, his good leg kicked wide, the cardboard sign propped against his belly. His clothes were filthy, his face covered with grime.
The Veterans Affairs Medical Center abutted these streets, and affluent Westwood received plenty of spillover from the facility.
The man rustled the sign in his lap. Passersby lived up to their designation, neither slowing nor looking up from their phones. When the veteran scratched his cheek, his finger carved a white streak through the grime.
The waiter circled by and topped off Evan’s sparkling water. He followed Evan’s gaze. “Would you like me to have him removed, sir?”
Evan said, “No.”
The server gave one of those ridiculous half bows inherent to waiters and barons and started to withdraw. Evan grasped his forearm. “I’d like another branzino, please.”
The waiter’s pupils jiggled a touch nervously. “Very well, sir.”
Fifteen minutes later the dishes arrived. The waiter hesitated.
Evan gestured at the place setting across from him. “The extra one goes there.”
The waiter stiffened, his posture verging on displeased. He dispensed the dishes as directed and retreated inside.
Evan stared across the sidewalk at the veteran, and, feeling the heat of his gaze, the man looked up. He rumbled to his feet, picked at his beard, his eyes on the steaming meal sitting before the empty chair.
“What’s that?” he said.
Evan said, “Yours.”
The man stood a moment longer, the cardboard sign crumpled between his loose fists. Then he hobbled onto the patio and sat opposite Evan.
He ate hungrily but not impolitely. The other diners either took no notice or competently pretended not to. Evan and the man dined in perfect silence, focused on their meals.
Sometime later they finished.
Evan held up his credit card, one of many in one of his many different names, and the waiter materialized to retrieve it.
As Evan signed the check, the man gulped down his water and wiped his mouth on the napkin. “Good fish,” he said.
Evan looked across the table until at last the man looked up.
“Thank you for your service,” Evan said.
The vet nodded. With some effort he rose, leaning heavily on his crutch.
As Evan headed out, the man resumed his position against the parking meter, holding up his unread sign as patrons streamed past.
18
Coldly Modern
Evan’s penthouse condo, a seven-thousand-square-foot sprawl, was open design and coldly moder
n—slab counters, streamlined appliances and fixtures, workout pods sprouting like mushrooms from the poured-concrete floors. It was also a fortress protected by rigorous alarms and surveillance systems, bullet-resistant polycarbonate thermoplastic resin windows, and armored sunshades. A freestanding fireplace dotted the center of the great room, and a spiral staircase rose to a reading room that he rarely made use of.
A black suede couch and an area rug, miniaturized by the vast space, fulfilled the homey quotient.
Still disgruntled by the restaurant’s standard booze offerings, Evan breezed into the kitchen and tugged open the freezer drawer of the Sub-Zero. Lined neatly inside was a selection of exceptional vodkas. He plucked out his bottle of choice for the evening.
Fog Point was made with water harvested from San Francisco fog. To capture the Bay Area mist, mesh fog catchers designed to emulate water-capturing plants were positioned high on the hilltops around Outer Sunset and Sutro Tower. A full day’s harvest amounted to a mere few cups of the precious liquid.
Evan filled a cocktail shaker with purified ice, poured in a jigger, and shook it until his hands adhered to the metal. From the freezer’s middle shelf, he removed a stainless-steel martini glass, frosted from the chill, and poured in the mist’s newest iteration.
He sipped.
Hint of citrus. Maybe honeysuckle.
Lovely.
He circled the kitchen island to the so-called living wall, a vertical rise of germinating herbs and vegetables, and snapped off a sprig of basil, which he let float among the ice crystals.
Then he washed and dried the shaker and jigger and put them away. A few drops of water remained on the counter, so he wiped them and then wiped the rest of the counter for good measure, and then he wiped it again to get rid of the wipe marks.
He told himself, “Stop.”
Padding across the great room, drink in hand, he passed between racks of kettlebells, his shoulder brushing a heavy bag.
A single hall led to the master bedroom, where his Maglev bed literally floated above the floor, repelled from it by unreasonably powerful neodymium rare-earth magnets. A cable anchored to each corner moored the bed to keep it from flying up and smashing against the ceiling.
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