“What?” Suddenly Reese was up and out of his chair. “What kind of connection? What are you saying—exactly? What the hell is going on here?”
“We don’t know,” Cormorant said. “That’s the first part of the fucking problem. The second is shielding the administration from whatever this is going to be.”
“Your job is covering the president and vice president, not the entire administration,” Reese shot back, his voice rising.
Cormorant stood firm, both arms folded across his chest. “My job is to investigate and prevent any potential threat—”
“Both of you, please shut it!” Tillman’s voice rose to a shout. “We’re all together on this or the meeting is terminated right now. You got that? Both of you?”
They answered in unison. “Yes, sir.”
“Dan, I already know what you think. Gabe, I want your honest opinion. I’m not at all sure we should keep this quiet. It could very easily come back to bite us, and we’re not talking about censure or a slap on the wrist here. Not with this Congress. Not with the press either. And surely not if this actually involves murder.”
Murder? Dear God, Reese thought.
He ran a hand through his hair, which had been silver since his midtwenties. “Sir, I’m not sure that an off-the-cuff answer to a question like this is in your best interests, or the president’s. Is this a rumor? Are there hard facts to substantiate it? What facts? Does the president know yet?”
“The problem is that we know very little at this juncture. Goddamnit, Gabe, what does your gut tell you? I know you have an opinion. And no, the president doesn’t know. We know.”
Tillman was big on gut, and he was right; Reese did already have an opinion.
“Going public is a bell that can’t be unrung. We should find out what we can, within a very limited time frame. Say two or three days. Or until you specify otherwise, sir,” he added for Agent Cormorant’s benefit. “And we’ll need an exit strategy. Something to distance ourselves when and if any story comes out before we want it to.”
“I agree, sir,” Cormorant put in. “We’re way too much in the dark right now, and that is unacceptable.”
Tillman took a deep breath that Reese read as both resignation and assent. “I want you two working together on this. No phone calls, though, and for God’s sake, no e-mails. Dan, can you assure me that absolutely none of this goes through the Crisis Center?”
“I can, sir. I’ll have to speak to a few of my men. But it can be contained. For a while.”
“Gabe, you mentioned exit strategies?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think dimensionally here, all possible scenarios. Anticipate everything. And I mean everything.”
“I will, sir. My mind is going at about a million miles an hour right now.”
“Good man. Any other questions?”
Reese had already started scanning his memory for historical or legal precedent, more out of habit than anything. There were no questions of loyalty here. His only reservation was situational. Good God Almighty—if there was a serial killer connected to the White House? Any kind of killer?
“Sir, if there’s word out on this, what’s to keep anyone else—God forbid a reporter—from picking up on it?”
Cormorant looked offended, but he let the vice president answer.
“It’s the Secret Service, Gabe. We’re not talking about an open-source intelligence here.” Cormorant stood down and Reese tensed.
“But that’s not the kind of insurance I’m going to depend on either. I want this done fast, gentlemen. Fast and clean and thorough. We need some real facts. And clarity. We need to find out who the hell Zeus is and what he’s done, and then we have to deal with it like it never happened.”
Chapter 7
THE PUNCHES KEPT coming, hard ones. Despite the Rhode Island driver’s license, Caroline had been living in Washington for the last six months, but she’d never tried to make contact with me. She had an English-style basement apartment on C near Seward Square—less than a mile from our house on Fifth Street. I’d jogged by her building dozens of times.
“She had nice taste,” Bree said, looking around the small but stylish living room.
The furniture and decor had an Asian influence, lots of dark wood, bamboo, and healthy-looking plants. A lacquered table by the front door held three river stones, one of them carved with the word Serenity.
I didn’t know if that felt more like a taunt or a reminder. Caroline’s apartment was nowhere that