Chapter Fifty-Five

R OBERT GOT IN to work early. The Main Interior Building was a ghost town; no one was around besides the security guards. They were used to the odd hours Robert kept, and didn't bat an eye when he arrived at sunrise. Or at the crack of noon.

But having had to leave the Senator's apartment when he did left Robert with two options: go home and take another shower, which he kind of needed, or head to work and begin the task of preventing the apocalypse, which seemed a bit more pressing.

He got into the office, turned the lights on, did a quick sweep, put his gun into the top drawer of his desk, and plopped down. A quick flick of a switch, and his computer beeped. Robert typed in his password. All the usual routines of the day.

He heard footsteps in the hallway — multiple people walking together as a group.

Robert had his drawer open immediately, resting his hand on his gun, pointing the barrel in the general direction of the door. He'd never tried firing through the desk, but figured it'd probably sort of work…

The footsteps passed by.

Robert took a breath and let it out slowly.

There was a quick discussion in the hallway, and the footsteps returned. And Robert's hand returned to the gun.

A quick knock at the door — two raps in short succession — and the door swung open.

A man in a suit held the door open, and woman in a pant suit strode in, looking around. Her eyes roved around the room for a moment before zeroing in on Robert.

"Oh," she said, clearly feigning surprise, "I didn't expect anyone would be here."

"And yet," Robert replied, "here I am." He kept his hand on the pistol, but his finger wasn't on the trigger for the moment. "Can I help you?"

She smiled at him, the sort of grin a lifelong politician can throw on at a moment's notice.

"This is the Bureau of External Affairs?" she asked.

"It is," Robert replied.

"Ah. I wasn't sure it existed."

Robert gestured around him. "It does."

"Funny."

"Sure."

"What do you do?"

"I'm the head librarian and researcher, and I man the reception desk."

"Librarian?"

"Yes."

"You've got books?"

"Enough to warrant a librarian, yes."

"How quaint."

"I'm hoping to make head quilter later this year."

"Mocking me might not be the best career move."

"I've never been one for making good career moves, let alone the best one."

"What's your name?"

"Robert Phillip Smith. You are?"

"The Secretary of the Interior."

"Oh," Robert said with a smile, pulling his hand out of the drawer. "Secretary Scullion. Welcome to our little corner of, uh, your department."

"I've never really noticed your existence before."

"Kind of a mutual thing, really."

"You do understand I control your budget, don't you?"

"You'll have to talk to my boss about that. I just take care of the books and the snark."

"The snark is part of your job?"

"I mean, it is now."

"And where is your boss?"

"He's currently unavailable."

"Is there a reason he's not in the office?"

"Yes."

"Which is?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. And anyway, didn't you just say you weren't expecting anyone to be here?"

She smiled, the sickly sort of smile that conveyed her true feelings on the matter, the smile version of fuck-you-very-much. "I'm sure you think you're doing your boss a favor by covering for him, but I'm allowed to know anything you know."

Robert held up a single finger. "Actually, you'll find that's not the case."

"What are you talking about? I've got the highest level of security clearance there is. Do I need to send my security team out of the room?" she asked with a patronizing sort of look.

"No, they can stay," Robert replied. "But I still can't tell you anything either way."

She frowned, standing up straight. Playtime was over. She was angry, and wanted Robert to know it.

"Now listen here, you little twerp," she snapped, "this is my building, and my department. That means you are mine, your boss is mine, your office is mine. Your ass is mine—"

"I think that's sexual harassment."

"You're fired."

"I wish I was," Robert replied with a sad sort of a smile. He really did want to be fired, to return to the life he'd wanted. But that just wasn't in the cards. Or, in a sense, the Constitution. More specifically, in Executive Order 7, the order that made the BEA, established the rules, and made those in the BEA answerable to no one, even the President. But though Robert could point all of that out to Secretary Scullion, he didn't want to. She could learn it on her own.

She blinked, and looked back at her security team. All young men, all looking sharp in their suits.

Robert smiled, understanding exactly why she'd chosen her team. He doubted very much they were actually good at what they were suppose to do — protect someone — but that they were very good at being looked at.

"Is this some sort of joke?" she asked. "Am I on Punk'd?" She walked around the waiting room and moved aside the artificial ficus tree. "Is there a hidden camera?"

"Nope," Robert replied, wanting to point out that Punk'd had been off the air for some time, but deciding that a woman decked out in a beige pantsuit wasn't exactly at the forefront of anything resembling pop culture. Or fashion. "You can't fire me."

"Are you in a union?" she asked, eyes narrow.

"Nope," Robert said, "though that might be nice. Then I might get vacation days. And overtime."

"Then I can fire you."

"Tell you what," Robert said, "you get me out of this job, I'll pay you everything I have in my savings account right now. Hell, I'll even throw in the pension I've got."

She waited for a moment, then spun on her heel and walked out of the office in a huff. The security team followed, leaving the door open.

Robert shook his head, got out from behind his desk, and walked over to the door. He leaned into the hallway.

"Don't worry boys," he shouted after the retreating forms, "I'll get the door."

One of the men looked back. Even through the sunglasses, Robert could tell the guy was irritated. Robert gave a little wave. The man returned a single finger salute.

"Rude."