The Washington Monument was silhouetted in the setting sun, tall and pointed and vaguely phallic. The traffic below was deeply gridlocked. Man’s towering achievement, maybe topped with a dash of hubris, juxtaposed with his enduring ineptitude. Business as usual in the District.
A mile and a half away, a mid-sized man walked into a mid-sized DC office building. The man had an aquiline nose and a prominent chin and a bald spot on the crown of his head that made him look a little like a monk. The office building looked like any other soulless cubicle farm.
A large reception desk dominated the building’s entryway. A pretty young woman in a miniskirt stood to greet him. On her hip was a holstered sidearm. “Good evening, Mr. Grange,” she said. “Director Wells is expecting you.”
His face took the shape of the closest thing to a smile in his repertoire. “Good evening,” Grange said, but he didn’t stop to chat up the pretty young thing. He wasn’t much for chatting, and besides, he took care of his infrequent desire for companionship on a transactional basis.
He stepped into an open elevator, swiped a magnetic badge, and pressed his thumb against the button for the twelfth floor. Access was restricted unless your badge happened to be in the database. Grange’s badge had been in the database for decades. The number twelve illuminated cooperatively and the elevator doors closed.
Grange closed his eyes. How many trips had he made to the same office? How many different directors had he counseled, nudged, cajoled, browbeaten? He should take the time to count them, he decided. A man eyeballing his own ascension should make an accounting.
The elevator doors opened into a different world. The grim, gray prison of DC office life was for the first eleven floors. The twelfth floor was all opulence, influence, and power. The office had been redecorated more times than Grange could count, each time to more accurately reflect the tastes and sensibilities of its most recent occupant, but it was essentially the same as it ever was.
Grange took his customary seat in what people called the Green Room. It contained a conference table and a phalanx of plush leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall. The famous skyline lay beyond, shaded a mild sepia by the window tint. Someone less jaded than Grange would have appreciated the view.
He didn’t stand when the director of national intelligence entered. Both by nature and position, Grange was largely immune to DC’s obsession with rank and pecking order, and he rather enjoyed rubbing it in.
Alexander Wells wore an expensive suit, rumpled from a long day of sitting in meetings. “You’re sure?” he said without preamble.
“Nobody is ever sure,” Grange replied, “but we appear to be on track.”
“There’s a lot riding on this. It would be useful to know whether there is any suspicion in the senator’s camp, anything we should be concerned about.”
Grange eyed the sunset while Wells eyed Grange. “The intelligence business teaches many useful skills,” Grange said. “Clairvoyance does not happen to be one of them. I have no notion of the senator’s state of mind.”
Wells shook his head. “An educated guess, then.”
“I see no reason for concern at this stage,” Grange said.
“And the girl?” Wells asked. “She’s in motion?”
“We’ve provided a few helpful nudges.”
“You sent someone reliable, I take it?”
“No,” Grange said flatly. “I sent an incompetent.”
The director shook his head. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said.
“I suppose so.”
“But you know what I was asking.”
“Yes,” Grange said. “I went myself. I gave the girl an appropriate shove. We have intervened occasionally since then, when required. She is on the path and I believe it leads in due course to the senator.”
Wells met his eye. “You believe? That doesn’t inspire much confidence.”
“I’m not in the confidence business.”
“I find your cavalier attitude unnerving. You realize we’re exposed here?”
Grange chuckled. “We’re always exposed,” he said.
“You told me we were okay,” Wells said.
Grange shook his head. “I told you to play the odds,” he said. “You heard what you wanted to hear.”
“No,” Wells said, shaking his head. “You told me everything pointed to Stanley.”
“All the evidence we know of does point to Stanley,” Grange snapped. “But do you believe we know everything there is to know about this situation? Do you believe for an instant the senator has taken no steps to protect himself?”
A long silence.
“What Oren Stanley did is unthinkable,” Wells finally said. “I want him to pay dearly for it, but more than that, I want him cut off. I don’t care about his Rolodex or his war chest. He’s a liability we can’t afford to keep around.”
Grange said nothing.
“How long will it take for her to find her way to the senator?” Wells asked.
“I would hazard a guess, but that would be pointless.”
“Christ, Grange, what the hell do we pay you for?”
“Director Wells, you don’t pay me.”
The director rose. “You’re worth every damn penny.” He walked out the door, leaving Grange alone in the Green Room.
On his way out of the building, Grange waved at the pretty girl with the gun on her hip.