But this felt different. Ever since the summer, ever since that whole affair in California and Mexico, he’d been keeping things from her. She knew that too. And it had worried her. She’d asked him about it, not too often, just when it felt like the right time to do so, when she felt he was a bit of a softer target than normal. And she’d failed. He’d kept insisting there was nothing going on. And now, this.
She was worried. There was no way to convince herself otherwise. You developed an instinct about these things; about the person you loved and were sharing your life with. And right now, her instincts were on the boil.
Where are you, Sean?
I saw my phone light up with Tess’s call, but I couldn’t bring himself to take it. I was still groggy, my brain still frazzled by the frenzy I’d just survived-and escaped.
I didn’t know what to say without worrying her, scaring her, implicating her-I had to think things through.
I knew she was probably already beyond worried. No call, on a night like this-she’d have gone through frustration, through fury, and on to worry.
I hated putting her through this. But I couldn’t do any better. Right now, I had to keep moving, and think.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I pulled the cover off the back of my phone and dug its battery out.
And kept heading north.
“Tess, it’s so lovely to meet you,” the First Lady said as an aide introduced them.
Tess shook hands with her before turning to President Yorke, who asked, “So where is that barnstorming man of yours then? We were expecting the two of you?”
She felt immensely awkward standing there, an awkwardness that had started long before she’d reached the Southeast Entrance. The setting alone was intimidating enough, in the best of circumstances: Christmas dinner at the White House, hosted by the most powerful man on the planet and his wife. Not exactly a casual cocktail party, by any means. Throw in the fact that you were turning up alone, without your partner-who was the reason for the invitation in the first place-and without being able to give any convincing answer for why he wasn’t there, and we’re talking Richter-scale jitters of unease.
Henry “Hank” Yorke was coming up to the end of his first term, but the prospect of a whole year of monster campaigning that was about to kick off within weeks didn’t seem to faze him. Tall and charismatic, he had just turned seventy-one, which, if he were re-elected, would make him the oldest person ever to be elected president. Still, he was in fine physical shape, his charisma and his energy intact, and with the country enjoying a period of economic stability and no bruising foreign wars, he seemed reasonably assured of a second term.
President Yorke and his wife Megan typically hosted a whole series of social events in the month that led to Christmas. Their social secretaries and their staff had been busy for weeks, planning the cocktail parties and dinners, cutting and pasting their way through the lists of donors, lobbyists, bloggers and reporters, government staffers and foreign diplomats and all kinds of supporters or notable achievers of every kind, making sure the guests lists were well balanced and well matched, vetting them again and again to make sure no personal slights or diplomatic faux pas would ensue. Tonight’s event, though, was no six hundred-guest whirlwind tour of the White House’s various reception rooms. This was a more intimate seated dinner in the State Dining Room-intimate, as in eighty people seated at eight tables of ten. Not as easy to get lost in the crowd or hide the embarrassing, empty seat at the table.
“Yes, where is he?” the First Lady asked.
Tess just smiled uncomfortably, and all she could think of saying was simply, “I honestly couldn’t tell you,” with an embarrassed, half-laugh.
I’m making excuses for Sean with the president! She shuddered inwardly.
“I was so looking forward to meeting him,” Megan Yorke said. “Hank’s told me so much about him, and we owe him so much, of course. I haven’t had the chance to thank him.” She turned to her husband. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me what really happened that night or that you’d met with him until after Agent Reilly was back home in New York. I mean, I was there, too, wasn’t I?”
Yorke gave her a practiced smile and nodded, expertly hiding any reaction to her gripe. “Sweetheart, we needed to make sure the threat was fully contained. I didn’t want you worrying unnecessarily.”
They both owed their lives to Reilly. No one could argue that. As Tess flicked a quick glance around the room, she wondered how many of the people around her had been there that night earlier this year, at the White House Correspondents Dinner at the Hilton hotel in Washington, the night a rogue Russian agent came close to causing a historic bloodbath. Yorke and his wife, along with most of their senior staffers and a star-studded list of guests, were saved from a horrific death, which was why Reilly had been invited to this dinner. Tess had debated not coming at all if he didn’t show up, but she’d decided one of them showing up was marginally less rude than both.
“You know how it is,” Tess said, forcing a smile to crack her tensely locked facial muscles. “He’s probably out there chasing down some psycho while we’re sitting here enjoying this very lovely Merlot.”
“I don’t know how you can take it in your stride like that,” the First Lady said. “It’s so admirable of you, not even knowing where he is half the time, I imagine. At least when Hank here was still at the Agency, I gave up making any kind of social plans knowing how many times he’d stood me up, but at least I knew where he was and I knew he wasn’t in danger since he was a desk jockey,” she added with a small laugh and a sideways, playful glance at her husband. “Your life must be-well, I don’t envy you. It can’t be easy.”
The president, whose route to politics and the White House had begun in intelligence, where he ultimately ended up running the CIA, nodded calmly in agreement. “I’m sure whatever it is he’s doing, we’re probably lucky he’s doing it.” His expression turned a bit more serious and he seemed to be studying Tess more closely. “You know, a lot of people aren’t thrilled with his way of handling things-I’ve had more than a few calls about him-but I just tell them to back off. If anything, we need more guys like him. So whatever reason he can’t be here is fine with me. And at least, we got to meet you.”
She and Reilly had been placed at a table by the gingerbread White House, which she was told was something they crafted every year. It wasn’t long before the hosts and their guests were all seated and enjoying a first course of chanterelle mushroom soup with goat cheese fritters, Reilly’s empty seat staring at her from across the table. By the end of the meal, she felt like a wreck. Three times, she’d suffered the chastising eyes of the table companions who’d noticed her sneaking a glance at her phone under the table, but her screen was clear of any notifications. Reilly hadn’t called or messaged her.
A profound sense of worry was crippling her.
Where the hell are you, Sean?
14
Lower East Side, Manhattan
The cushioning on the armchair was about as soft as a bale of reclaimed metal, but I still felt like I was going to drift off any second.
My head was pounding-as much from overexertion due to grinding over the events and my options at this point as from the blow from my gun.
I checked my watch: five after two. My host was out late, even for a weekday, obviously enjoying having his life back after the circadian confusion of the past few weeks and no doubt busy converting the endless stream of Tinder matches into flesh-and-bone conquests. I just hoped he’d come back home instead of staying over with whatever buxom free spirit he’d graced with his fickle presence.