“Secret Service provides impeccable security, Joe. I’m sure they’ll agree to intensified procedures.”
“I can’t, Ash. I’m sorry. My family’s not ready for this. My parents, even cousins and old friends—they’re all getting death threats. Renaissance and Braden have painted a bull’s-eye on me.”
“I have to attempt to convey to you, Joe, just how important you are to this process. Your ability to broker with the Republican Party is crucial.”
“And I’ll do everything I can behind the scenes, but we both know I’m not the one who’s going to get the bill over the hump with our caucus.” Indeed, it was obvious that Emii Li Song would be the only person to speak for Republicans in the end, but I tried to press him further. He interrupted me, raising his hand. “Ash, someone sent my daughter a VR xpere of a woman being tortured. I’m sorry, but…”
He stood.
“I should also warn you, I heard two of the guest services people talking about a forest fire nearby.”
He walked away. I quickly took out my phone and saw the alert: a seven-thousand-acre fire burning south of Kent Peak. I went to the window, and I could see the smoke in the distance.
Before we convened the next day, the captain in charge of our Secret Service detail briefed us on the fire. Nine thousand acres and growing, moving southwest but still well clear of the Sun Valley resort and the nearby town of Ketchum. Firefighters and smoke jumpers had been dispatched, but the June heat wave was accompanied by over five hundred uncontained fires across the western states and provinces. The captain said they had planes on standby at the airport, and if it was necessary, they would evacuate the task force to another site. Joe Otero had left that morning, and it fell to me to report his resignation to the team. We went on to dither pointlessly about potential public works projects within each congressional district, clean energy pork that might secure votes. Tony had little to say, and during lunch I saw him looking worriedly at the haze cloaking the horizon.
When we concluded for the day, Haniya tugged my elbow. “I need a fucking drink, Ashir.”
The two of us drove into Ketchum, stopping at a liquor store. I was driving so I only had a few sips of the vodka, but Hani poured hers over tonic, crushed a slice of lime between thumb and forefinger, and quaffed thirstily. “When you left for college, this was my drink. Mumma and Papa never knew.”
“Where did you get the vodka?”
“Papa’s garage. Where else? He probably knew I was sneaking it from him.”
Hani pointed out the house, a quaint two-story with dark wood and a green wraparound porch overlooking a river and forest. I pulled in. When I turned off the engine, there was no sound but the trickle of the river below. Above the house reigned the soft blue of the smoky night.
Hani said: “That’s the door where he shot himself, I think. You ever read him?”
“My freshman year in college we were assigned The Old Man and the Sea. I found it pointless.”
“Yeah, you would. I was never much of a fan myself, but Peter loves him.”
“Does he?”
She lowered her voice, and with a jocular cadence began imitating her husband: “Babe, American literature rewrote itself in the mold of Ernie Hemingway. The Hemster. Hemster Wheel. Wheels Up. Pop-a-wheelie. Wheelie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”
I almost choked on my beverage, I was so surprised at my own laughter.
“Holy shit, I got you! I fucking got you! I think I’ve heard you laugh once our whole lives.”
“Then you know it’s an honest one.”
“Praise Allah, I can’t wait to tell Pete.”
“Seth could make me laugh, but not in an honest way.” I maintained my previous smile. “He would say something idiotic or inappropriate and laugh at his own joke. Then his imbecility would make me laugh.”
We were quiet for a while, nursing the drinks.
Finally, I asked: “Is Peter a good man, Hani?”
She answered with an odd calm, as if she’d anticipated this question as long as I’d wished to ask it: “He has his imperfections. Like we all do. We’ve both been…” She hesitated for so long, picking at the lip of the plastic cup. “We’ve both been unfaithful. Marriage is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Until designing a plan to save the world, of course.” She laughed without humor. “All this has made me wonder who exactly is a good person. If anyone can clear that bar anymore. I’ve thought a lot about complicity, how we’re all compromised. But we have to try to do what’s right and love each other all the same.”
An owl’s hoot breached the silence, and I watched the half-moon through the haze. She had reached into her pocket and was kneading a string of prayer beads, jet-black coral on a red string. They’d been our father’s. I’d only ever seen old men like him and our uncles carry them.
“Not particularly evidence-based, Hani.”
She snorted a laugh. “Shut up, Ash. Misbaha helps. Prayer helps. Unlike you, if I don’t believe there’s some grace to all this, some power guiding us, I think I might lose it.”
“You’re scared.”
“Uh, doy, no shit.” She kept one of the small black beads in her fingers.
“You’re free to do as you want, Hani. Though you surely know how many people in how many failing civilizations across the broad scope of history found themselves praying for deliverance in the face of annihilation, for a deus ex machina that never came.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
I nodded in agreement. Then I shared a confession: “I hope I’ve been a good brother to you. I find it hard sometimes. To communicate how I feel. But you have helped me to carry the weight my whole life. It’s a weight I doubt I could have held on my own. You’ve been an excellent comrade to me in all this.”
Her fingers relaxed on the beads. Then, without warning, Hani tackled me in the driver’s seat, wrapping me in a fierce and painful hug. She never hugged me because she knew how much I hated to be touched. But in this instance, I returned it, patting her back appropriately. She whispered:
“Subhanallah. A laugh and an emotion all in one night, Ash? I just wish Peter could’ve been here.”
We drove back, and I felt an unfamiliar levity that I had not felt since Seth died.
I awoke to a hard knock at my door. It was a Secret Service agent telling me to pack. The fire had not cooled in the night, and it was now racing south toward the resort. I gathered my clothes and toiletries. Downstairs, the SUVs were waiting and beyond them, the bright orange glow of the mountains burning. The sky was as bright as daylight. Smoke drifted over the valley, a leaden curtain of gray reflecting the flames.
We drove through Ketchum with the lights and sirens on, passing hundreds of cars crammed with whatever possessions people could grab at the last second. Both lanes of the road had been turned over to fleeing traffic, red taillights stretching into the distance. After the wheels lifted and the pilot hooked around to head east, I moved to sit beside Tony. It turned out he’d been at the Friedman Memorial Airport with his bags packed since 5 a.m. He was looking out the window, watching the fire. Admittedly, it was an incredible sight to behold. The furrows and crags of the low mountains were etched with the fire line. From above, this wall of advancing destruction appeared to move at a slow crawl, but of course it was racing, soon to threaten the first homes and structures on the north end of Ketchum. Tony had a dark expression.
I asked: “You knew we’d have to evacuate?”
“You haven’t seen a fire like this before.”
That was all he said on the matter. No one even asked where the plane was taking us.
Secretary Rathbone was most incensed by our new quarters, the Marriott Hotel in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. I was nearby when he saw his new room.