“I get teary because I believe in it. In heroism and duty, in sacrifice for justice and equality. All that good stuff. That’s why I became a soldier in the first place.”
“But now you’ll be fighting against other gifteds. People like you.”
“I realize it’s weird.” He’d taken her hands. “Twists—”
“Would you stop it with that word?”
“Okay, abnorms, they’ll think I’m a traitor, and some of my new straight colleagues won’t trust me. I get it.”
“So why—”
“Because we have a son.”
Natalie had been about to respond, but his answer threw her. She looked down at her hands in his. “I just—I don’t want you to end up hating yourself.”
“I won’t. I’ll be fighting for a world where it doesn’t matter if my son is gifted or not. That’s a cause I can kill for.” As if on cue, Todd had stirred in his crib. They had both held their breath. When he settled, Cooper continued. “Besides, I want to be able to protect you both if things do get worse. There’s no better place to be able to do that.”
Time to test that theory.
The Equitable Services command center was as busy as ever. Shifts ran twenty-four hours, and day or night analysts keyed in their data, argued over meaning and relevance, and updated the video wall that showed every action in the country. There were more oranges and reds overlaid today than yesterday, measurements of the nation’s growing tension. The bank of monitors played cable news, two channels dedicated to that evening’s reopening of the stock market, a third showed a conservative pundit drawing on a chalkboard, the fourth running an earlier press conference in which a reporter buttonholed President Walker about the New Canaan Holdfast in Wyoming. The president looked tired but handled himself well, reminding the world that the gifted were also American citizens, and that the NCH was legally purchased corporate land.
Cooper headed for the stairs. Behind him, a woman called his name. He ignored her and started up the stairs. Valerie West hurried after him. “Cooper!”
He turned his head but didn’t stop. “I’m busy.”
“No, listen, one of the taps turned something up. You’ve got to hear—”
“Later.”
“But—”
He whirled. “I said later, okay? I don’t know how much simpler I can make it.”
Valerie reacted as if slapped. “Yes, sir.”
Cooper hurried up the stairs, one hand trailing the railing. A balcony ringed the command center, executive offices, and conference rooms. Director Drew Peters’s office was mostly glass, allowing him to keep an eye on the video wall and the activity below. Now, however, the blinds were closed. His assistant, Maggie, a stylish woman in her early fifties with a pleasant smile and ice water in her veins, looked up as Cooper approached. She’d been with Peters for two decades, and her experience and security clearance made her more executive officer than secretary.
“I need to see him.”
“He’s on a call. Have a seat.”
“Now, Maggie. Please.” He let some of the turmoil show on his face.
She examined him calmly, then turned to her keyboard, typed something. A moment later there was a ding of the returned instant message. “Go ahead, Agent Cooper.”
The office was tidy and tastefully lit, small for a man of Peters’s standing. There was a couch in one corner under the de rigueur framed portrait of President Henry Walker. But it was the other photographs that always caught Cooper. Instead of the predictable dick-measuring images of Peters with world leaders, the walls were decorated with shots of active targets. Pride of place was given to a black-and-white photo of John Smith holding a microphone and addressing a crowd on the Mall, leaning into the microphone like an evangelist.
From behind the desk, Peters gestured at a chair and continued speaking into the phone. “I understand that, Senator.” A pause. “It means just that. I understand you.” Peters rolled his eyes. “Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have sold him half the state, should you?” Another pause. “Yes, well, you’re certainly welcome to do that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.” He hung up, pulled off the slender earpiece, and dropped it on his desk. “Our distinguished senator from Wyoming. Erik Epstein bought twenty-three thousand miles of his state, an area the size of West Virginia, and the good senator didn’t trouble himself to wonder why.” The director shook his head. “The world would be a better place if people stopped voting for folksy candidates they could have a beer with and started voting for people smarter than them.” Peters leaned back in his chair and looked at Cooper quizzically. “What’s on your mind?”
“I need help, Drew.” In public it was always Director or sir, but the intensity of their job had taken things beyond the merely professional. Peters was a cool one, maintained decorum, but it wasn’t every agent he referred to as son.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s personal.”
“All right.”
“You’ve met my children.”
“Of course. Todd must be…eight now?”
“Nine. But it’s Kate that I need to talk to you about. Her mother got a call this morning from someone in Analysis. Apparently there was some sort of incident at school. They want to schedule a TDSA.”
Peters winced. “Ah, Nick. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s nothing, just a precaution.”
“That’s the problem.” Cooper took a deep breath, blew it out. “It’s not nothing.”
“She’s gifted?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
The director sighed. He took off his rimless glasses, pinched at his nose. “That’s hard.”
“I’m asking you for a favor.”
Peters replaced his glasses. Looked sideways, at the photos, the Wall of Shame, where John Smith leaned into a microphone. “It’s strange, isn’t it? There was a time, not so long ago, when every parent hoped their child would be born gifted. And now…”
“Sir, I know what I’m asking, and I’m sorry to do it. But she’s only four years old.”
“Nick.” A hint of reproach in the tone.
Cooper met his gaze, didn’t waver. “I need this, sir.”
“You know I can’t.”
“You know how much I do here. How many times I’ve killed for you.”
The director’s eyes hardened. “For me?”
“For Equitable Services. For,” he said, spreading his hands, “God and country. And in all that time, I’ve never asked for a thing, not one personal favor.”
“I know that. You believe in what we do here. That’s what makes you so good at your job.”
“My children are what make me good at my job,” Cooper said. “Everything I’ve ever done here, it’s to make the world better for them. Because I believe that what this agency does is the only way to get there. And now that agency wants to take my daughter.”
“First,” Peters said, “that’s an overstatement. Don’t lose your head. This test is given to every child in America—”
“At age eight. She’s four.”
“—and 98.91% of the time, it comes up negative.”
“I’m telling you, she’s gifted.”
“And only 4.91% are ranked as tier one.” Peters took a deep breath, then leaned into the desk. Sympathy radiated from every muscle in his body. “There are times I hate this job, you know. You’re not the first agent to have a child be scheduled for an early TDSA. I have to do this about once a year. But you’ve heard of Caesar’s wife? Well, we’re Caesar’s palace guard. Being beyond reproach isn’t just a noble idea. It’s mandatory. We cannot put ourselves above the law. If we do, we become the Gestapo.”