Ed Markowitz arrived at Walter Reed at eight that morning. He had gone home ten hours earlier in the hope of getting a decent night’s sleep. He’d failed miserably.
The fourth-floor corridor looked little changed since he’d left, save for a new Secret Service shift posted outside the Elayne Cleveland’s room. They cleared him through, and Markowitz was reaching for the door handle when he registered the scene inside through the inset glass pane. Richard Cleveland, standing next to his wife and clasping her hand, was engaged in an intense conversation with Dr. Singh. The doctor, who was situated on the opposite side of the bed, looked highly displeased.
Markowitz took his hand off the handle and backed away to watch. The hospital-grade door prevented any words from escaping, but tension radiated from the room with the all heat of a summer sun. He saw Singh give what looked like a reluctant nod. The doctor then circled around the bed and made his way toward the door.
Markowitz backed away, and as soon as Singh emerged, he said, “Is everything all right?”
The doctor paused. Markowitz could see him shifting mental gears, gnashing through a decision.
“Has there been a change?” Markowitz implored, this time more insistently.
“Ask her husband.” Singh spun away and whirled down the hall, a vision of white-coated irritation.
Markowitz edged inside, cautious but determined.
Richard Cleveland looked up at him, his anger also clear.
“What happened?” Markowitz asked.
“Nuthin’,” said the Montanan, who remained by his wife’s side.
“Richard, I—”
Cleveland held up an open palm in a stop right there gesture.
Markowitz did. He regarded the president, and thought she appeared much as she had on his last visit. Same bandages, same bruises, same ventilator. The monitors arrayed behind the bed looked equally unchanged. No flashing red lights, everything holding a steady rhythm.
It stayed that way for a few minutes. Cleveland holding his wife’s hand, Markowitz keeping a respectful distance. Finally, Richard said, “Ed, could you give us a minute … please.”
There could be only one response.
Markowitz stepped out of the room, but kept a line of sight through the window. Still holding his wife’s hand, Richard bent down over her. At first Markowitz thought he was going to kiss her, but then he saw something else—he whispered into her ear. Markowitz tried to imagine the words.
Goodbye, I love you?
Don’t worry, I’m still with you?
Richard finally backed away and headed for the door. Stepping out into the hall, he locked eyes with Markowitz, and said, “Wanna buy me a coffee?”
“Yes … I could use one myself.”
There was no line at the hospital café, and after ordering two coffees—sugar and cream for Markowitz, black for Cleveland—they took up a window-side table in the expansive sitting area. Hospital staff were sprinkled around the nearby tables, weary mid-shift nurses and lab techs, none of whom seemed to recognize the First Spouse. Markowitz himself was virtually anonymous outside the West Wing, a status he worked to maintain by ducking the press at every opportunity. This was a departure from how many of his predecessors had handled the job, but that was how he wanted it, and his unremarkable features and accountant’s demeanor cemented his obscurity.
They sat in silence for a time. Markowitz, determined to let Richard lead, simply stared into the blonde swirl of his cup, a fortune teller who was off his game.
“Elayne knew this attack was coming,” Richard finally said.
Markowitz looked up at him dumbly. “What? How?”
“I don’t mean the specifics, with Marine One and all. But she knew something was brewing. She first mentioned it to me a couple of months ago.”
Markowitz thought back. “I don’t remember hearing about any potential threats to the president in our intelligence briefings.”
“Wasn’t in any briefing.”
“Then how could—”
“I’m not gonna get into that. There was a lot of fuss about this Trident organization, and she reckoned they might try something.”
“Apparently that’s what happened. According to the CIA, they’re almost certainly responsible for the attack.”
“Yeah, maybe … but there’s more to it. Elayne told me there might be someone on our end involved.”
“Our end? As in—”
Richard’s voice went to a harsh whisper. “As in someone in the damned White House!” His even-tempered cowboy visage turned to stone.
“A mole?”
“Call it what you want.”
“Who?”
Richard paused long enough to look around the room, then answered in a barely audible voice. “She never figured that out. Or if she did, she never told me.”
Markowitz sat staring, slack-jawed. “I need to—”
“No!” the Montanan said. “You don’t need to do a damn thing! Not yet. And I’m not gonna say any more. The reason I’m telling you this much is because I need your help.”
“In what way?”
“Somebody has got to figure this out, and there’s only one person Elayne would trust with something like this. I want to talk to Anna Sorensen.”
“Sorensen?”
A slow cowboy nod.
“Well, all right. I could get you in to see her at Langley as soon as—”
“No, I ain’t leavin’ Elayne! You tell her to come here.”
Before Markowitz could respond, Richard tipped back the dregs of his coffee, got up, and ambled away with an old cowhand’s gait. He dropped his crushed cup into a recycle bin before disappearing down the hallway.
Markowitz sat thunderstruck, weighing the ramifications of what Richard had said. Looking both backward and forward, it introduced a dizzying array of complications. He was a methodical man, steeped in the machinations of government. The minutiae of emails and meetings, the fine art of Capitol Hill arm-twisting. What Richard Cleveland was suggesting pushed him onto entirely foreign ground. The steady, comfortable world in which Markowitz existed, wobbly in recent days, had now flipped completely on its head.
If what Richard had said was true, the country was indeed in peril. Dire peril.
And it was up to Markowitz to save it.