PRAISE FOR BARRY EISLER

THE LIVIA LONE SERIES

“An absolutely first-rate thriller . . . Emotionally true at each beat.”

—New York Times Book Review

“An explosive thriller that plunges into the sewer of human smuggling . . . Filled with raw power, [Livia Lone] may be the darkest thriller of the year.”

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Readers may be reminded of Stieg Larsson’s beloved Lisbeth Salander when they meet Livia Lone, and will be totally riveted by the story of this woman on a mission to right the wrongs in her past.”

—Bookish

“You won’t be able to tear yourself away as the story accelerates into a Tarantino-worthy climax, and when you’re left gasping in the wake of its gut-wrenching vigilante justice, you’ll belatedly realize you learned a lot about a social travesty that gets far too little attention . . . Livia Lone is a harrowing tale with a conscience.”

—Chicago Review of Books

THE CHAOS KIND

“Another high-fatality, high-spirited revenge fantasy.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Eisler juggles the complicated plot and large cast, imbuing his diverse characters with robust backstory and emotional motivation.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A spectacular revenge story. Eisler, who was briefly a covert operative for the CIA, has an energetic writing style: his dialogue gets right to the point, and his action scenes are clean and vividly rendered. The John Rain novels seem to fly under the radar of many genre fans, even though they deserve to sit alongside Lee Child’s Jack Reacher novels and Vince Flynn and Kyle Mills’s Mitch Rapp thrillers.”

—Booklist

THE KILLER COLLECTIVE

“Impossibly cool.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“As usual with an Eisler novel, the plot is full of twists, the prose is muscular, and the action unfolds at a torrid pace. The result is another page turner from one of the better thriller writers since James Grady published Six Days of the Condor in 1974.”

—Associated Press

“In this crackling-good thriller from bestseller Eisler, Seattle PD sex crimes detective Livia Lone, assassin John Rain, and former Marine sniper Dox form a testy alliance to combat a vile conspiracy involving corrupt and toxic government agencies . . . The feisty interplay among these killer elites is as irresistible as if one combined the Justice League with the Avengers, swapping out the superhero uniforms for cutting-edge weaponry and scintillating spycraft. By the satisfying conclusion, the world has been scrubbed a bit cleaner of perfidy. This is delightfully brutal fun.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Vicarious pleasure for anyone wanting to see the scum of the world get its due.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Eisler does a great job of creating individual personalities and tics with this group of uniquely trained professionals. A solid recommendation for fans of Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne and Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon.”

—Library Journal

“Riveting . . . Barry Eisler pulls off an Avengers-like feat . . .”

—The Mercury News

“Eisler turns the heat up like never before to deliver a fun, fast-paced thriller that’s tailor-made for fans of nonstop action.”

—The Real Book Spy

“The fun of Eisler’s super thriller is in the excitement, the chase, and the survival. The Killer Collective binds it together into a blazing adventure of espionage escape fiction, perfect to start the new year.”

—New York Journal of Books

“Eisler’s The Killer Collective packs a punch like a sniper’s rifle. A solid grounding in up-to-the-minute technology and current affairs makes this a hot read for thriller lovers.”

—Authorlink

“Heart-pounding! Eisler has created a more literary version of The Expendables—the movie series that brought together Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Jet Li, Chuck Norris, Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Bruce Willis, and other action heroes . . .”

—It’s Either Sadness or Euphoria

“Demonstrating the extraordinary expertise in the art of espionage and special operations—including surveillance detection, cover, elicitation, operational site selection, and more—that his fans and fellow practitioners have come to venerate, Eisler delivers another brilliant, fast-paced thriller, full of well-developed characters who remind me of the special operations and intelligence officers with whom I served and in some cases against whom I worked. For a retired senior CIA Clandestine Services officer still nostalgic for his espionage operations of bygone years, Eisler’s thrillers full of intrigue, adventure, and suspense are a most welcome opportunity to get as close as is now possible to the real thing.”

—Daniel N. Hoffman, retired Clandestine Services officer
and former CIA Chief of Station

ALSO BY BARRY EISLER

A Clean Kill in Tokyo (previously published as Rain Fall)

A Lonely Resurrection (previously published as Hard Rain)

Winner Take All (previously published as Rain Storm)

Redemption Games (previously published as Killing Rain)

Extremis (previously published as The Last Assassin)

The Killer Ascendant (previously published as Requiem for an Assassin)

Fault Line

Inside Out

The Detachment

Graveyard of Memories

The God’s Eye View

Livia Lone

Zero Sum

The Night Trade

The Killer Collective

All the Devils

The Chaos Kind

Amok

SHORT WORKS

“The Lost Coast”

“Paris Is a Bitch”

“The Khmer Kill”

“London Twist”

ESSAYS

“The Ass Is a Poor Receptacle for the Head: Why Democrats Suck at Communication, and How They Could Improve”

THE SYSTEM

BARRY EISLER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2025 by Barry Eisler

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Jae Song

Printed in the United States of America

First edition

It’s a big club—and you ain’t in it.

—George Carlin

For the real Héctor and Josie,
still a beautiful couple sixty years later.

CHAPTER 1

The object of power is power.

—George Orwell

The restaurant was small, and the packed crowd was cheering with such abandon that Valeria couldn’t hear the reporter’s question—even though the woman had yelled it only inches from her ear.

“I’m sorry?” Valeria shouted, her own words barely audible over the din.

The reporter leaned closer, taking care to keep her microphone between them. “How does it feel?” she hollered, louder this time. “Can you describe what you’re feeling right now?”

The cheering cohered into a chant—the campaign slogan, magnified by hundreds. Let’s do this! Let’s do this! Let’s do this!

Valeria glanced at the television monitor set up on the bar. The CNN chyron read, Valeria Velez Stuns Fillian Dunne, Will Represent California’s 27th District as Youngest Woman in Congress.

The networks were calling the election.

It shouldn’t have been a complete shock—Preston had been saying for a week that it wasn’t even close anymore, but that if cable news acknowledged it was already over, their viewers would drift away like fans before the fourth quarter of a lopsided football game.

Still, it didn’t seem real.

The crowd was stomping now in time with the chant. The floor shook. LET’S DO THIS! LET’S DO THIS! LET’S DO THIS!

“I’m just—” Valeria started to say, but it was no good, her people were too loud, and besides, she didn’t know what she was feeling right then, let alone how to describe it.

And suddenly the stomping and chanting were dying down. Valeria looked over and saw why: Preston, ever sensitive to an opportunity to cultivate the press, had jumped on a chair and was lowering his extended arms like a conductor signaling the orchestra to ease off the fortissimo. He grinned at Valeria and shook his head: Can you believe this?

No, she thought. I can’t.

But his smile gave her confidence, the way it always did.

“I’m sorry,” Valeria said. “Can you tell me your name again? So much going on.”

“Jocelyn. Jocelyn Slater. Gamut News.”

“Jocelyn,” Valeria said, leaning closer to the woman’s microphone. “Right. Well, I feel encouraged. Because if a little campaign like mine can do this, then America can do anything.”

Don’t let them make it about us, Preston liked to remind her. It’s always about your constituents. The people. The country. They want to talk personalities. We talk principles.

“Even overcome racism and misogyny?” Slater said.

From the beginning, the press had tried to frame the contest as young Latina versus old white guy. Valeria wasn’t going to take the bait.

“I based my campaign on economic policies,” Valeria said. “Class policies. I promised voters I would fight for those policies, and now that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Slater gave an almost imperceptible worth a try shrug, then turned to her cameraman and pulled the microphone close to her own mouth. “And there you have it. Valeria Velez, the unknown thirty-year-old bartender from Pacoima, defeats Fillian Dunne, ten-term incumbent, favorite of Santa Clarita business interests, and until tonight the likely next Speaker of the House. A David and Goliath story if ever there was one. Valeria—or should I call you Congresswoman—what kind of stones were you throwing from your sling?”

Valeria almost offered up the rote campaign answer—the determination to be a voice for the voiceless; to make the American Dream available for everyone; to take back government of, by, and for the people. All of which was true, of course, but suddenly she felt inspired by something different.

“You really want to know?” she said, stealing a quick look at the camera lens, giving herself an extra moment to consider.

Slater leaned closer as though they were sharing a secret. “If you’re willing to tell.”

“It’s this: Today is a good day to die.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s a saying,” Valeria went on, feeling a little rush at the risk of improvising, at knowing there was no taking it back now. “Attributed to Oglala Lakota leader Crazy Horse. Crazy Horse was talking about war. But we’re in a battle, too, and what the expression means here is that I’m not afraid to lose. For me politics is nothing more than a means of improving the lives of millions of ordinary Americans. Power is only potential. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

“You’re saying politics isn’t worthwhile?”

Never just bob and weave, Preston always told her. No matter what you say, staying on defense makes you look weak. Be a counterpuncher. Hit ’em back. He knew she liked boxing references. Her father, Héctor, had been a California Golden Gloves state champion and had coached Valeria and her brother Mateo when they were teenagers trying to follow in his footsteps.

“Of course it’s worthwhile—for the few, who use politics to profit at the expense of the many. For the rich and powerful of this country, politics is a fantastic racket. The question is whether we can change this country’s politics, to provide a decent life for the many rather than further fattening the very few.”

Preston was a terrific tactician. But the alliteration was all hers—and always had been, starting with the name her parents had given her.

“Many people believe your signature policy proposal—the universal basic income—is a utopian fantasy.”

Valeria leaned closer to the mic. “They said the same about abolishing slavery. About women’s suffrage, too. You don’t think those are utopian fantasies, Jocelyn, do you?”

Some in the crowd who were close enough to hear laughed.

Slater shook her head quickly, maybe at the discomfort of having the Q&A script flipped. “But do you really expect to be able to follow through on a UBI now that you’ve won the election?”

“Look, artificial intelligence isn’t just the future anymore. It’s here now and getting more powerful every day, and its impact is only beginning to be felt. In long-haul trucking alone, we’re talking over two million Americans, ninety percent of whom are men with a median age of forty-six, all of whom are going to be instantly out of work the moment AI starts driving trucks for no salary and without ever needing to sleep. That’s a literal army of unemployed. So what’s utopian—discarding two million men and hoping for the best, or making sure they have something to fall back on as our entire society adjusts to the massive technological shift of AI?”

“So you’re in the camp that views AI as an existential threat?”

“It doesn’t matter how I view it. What matters is its impact. The collision we’re about to have with AI is going to be like nothing society has experienced since the Industrial Revolution. We need a UBI airbag to cushion the crash.”

“Any comments on the rumors about you and your campaign manager, Preston Jante?”

Valeria wasn’t surprised—she was used to reporters fleeing from substance in favor of gossip. And she understood that anytime two attractive people worked closely together, rumors were inevitable. Of course, in this case the rumors were true.

“I’ve addressed those stories more times than I can—”

“But now you’re a congresswoman. Don’t you owe the people an answer?”

And then Preston appeared next to them, as though he’d sensed the question and levitated over to interrupt it.

“It’s Dunne,” he said, holding out a cellphone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Valeria looked at the phone. For a surreal instant, she was a kid again, back on the Viper roller coaster at Magic Mountain, where Héctor had taken her for the first time when she was eight. The clack clack clack of the gears as the train car climbed the mechanical lift, the split second of stillness at the top . . . and then the whoosh of air in her face and the sickening clench in her belly as gravity disappeared and the car plunged from two hundred feet in the air.

“He’s . . . conceding?”

Preston shook his head as though in wonder or disbelief. “All he said was, ‘I’d like to speak with Valeria.’”

She smiled, feeling a little nauseous, and took the phone.

“This is Valeria.”

“Congratulations, Congresswoman Velez. I hope I’m the first person to call you that, because it would be an honor.”

For a second, she wanted to apologize for every charge she’d ever leveled at him—corporatist, militarist, bought-and-paid-for. Yes, it was all true, and yes, he’d thrown plenty of shade, too, but he was beaten now. And being so gracious in defeat.

“A reporter just called me Congresswoman. But . . . not Congresswoman Velez.”

Dunne laughed. “I guess it’s a night of second places for me. But I’m glad the fight is over. Maybe now we can be friends.”

“I’d like that,” she heard herself say. Did she mean it? She thought she did, but maybe that was just some kind of victor’s guilt.

“I need to address the troops,” he said. “They already know from the networks, but they won’t accept it until they hear from me.”

“I know how they feel, Congressman.”

He laughed again. “I won’t be a congressman for much longer. And my friends call me Fillian.”

For a second, she was actually touched. Without thinking, she said, “My friends call me Valeria.”

“Well . . . maybe when it’s just us talking. But when people are around, I’ll use the title. You earned it. Cheers, Valeria.”

He clicked off before she could even say goodbye. She looked at Preston, shaking her head wordlessly, and handed him back the phone.

Everyone had gone quiet. They were all watching her.

“Well?” Slater said.

Valeria cleared her throat. “Someone bring me a chair.”

Instantly the whole room was in motion. Within seconds, a half dozen chairs had been laid out before her. She stepped onto one in the center and Preston handed her a microphone.

She started to smile and was surprised to feel her free hand rising toward her mouth. Her childhood teeth had been crooked, and as a teen, concealing them had been a habit. But she’d earned enough bartending in college to afford braces, which had given her a beautiful smile and ended the self-conscious reflex—or at least suppressed it. She managed to grab the mic with both hands, hoping the gesture would look natural and not like something redirected, and unleashed a huge, unabashed grin. A few campaign workers clutched each other’s shoulders, probably afraid to believe this could be real.

“That was Congressman Dunne,” she said. “Calling to concede—”

Everyone went wild, whooping, applauding, stomping. Valeria waited until the commotion began to drop off.

“—to concede the election. And to congratulate everyone in this room on our against-all-odds victory!”

The room erupted again, and again Valeria waited.

“I have so many of you to thank,” she went on. “For now, I’m going to mention only two, or I’ll go on all night.”

She cleared her throat once more. “First, Preston Jante, the best campaign manager in the history of campaigns—”

The applause amped up again, and again she waited until it died down.

“Preston was the one who suggested I do this crazy thing—not just run for Congress, but against Fillian Dunne, who was considered by anyone not certifiably mad to be unbeatable!”

Laughter. Applause. Scattered cries of We’re all mad here! and They sure got that wrong!

“It’s good Preston and I both tend bar at Dennis’s restaurants,” Valeria said. “Because if it hadn’t been after hours and if I hadn’t been drinking, I probably wouldn’t have listened to him.”

More laughter. She gestured to Dennis, who was hanging back, smiling.

“Which brings me to the other person I want to thank. Dennis Kelly, the force behind Protégé, Lancaster’s first Michelin-starred restaurant. Dennis gave me a job when I needed one, a campaign headquarters when I didn’t have one, and a place for this party better than anything we could have bought even with all the money in the world!”

Which we don’t have! someone called out, to ripples of laughter and a response of, Who needs money, we’ve got the love!

“Every one of us worked so hard on this,” Valeria said when the laughter and cheers had died down. “And tonight, every one of us has so many reasons to be joyous and proud. But tomorrow the hard part begins. The part where we stop stuffing the maw of the military machine, where we take those wasted trillions and make them part of a universal basic income, where we build a society that runs on hope rather than fear and that works not just for the richest one percent, but for all Americans, not just for the few of them but for all of us!”

The crowd went berserk at the last three words, which were another campaign slogan, turning them into a deafening chant. All of us! All of us! All of us!

It went on for a long time. When it finally began to ebb, Valeria said, “But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, let’s party!”

That detonated a fresh outpouring of laughter and applause. She looked at Preston, wanting to share the moment with him, but he was focused on his phone, frowning.

She stepped off the chair and walked over, pausing to accept handshakes and hugs from delirious members of the campaign. Preston, ordinarily attuned to her movements and needs, kept staring at his phone. He didn’t even notice when she reached him.

She touched his shoulder. “What is it?”

He looked up. “They’re moving the NGAD fighter.”

“What? From Palmdale?”

He nodded. “Air Force Plant 4. Nancy Byer. Texas’s 12th District.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? It’s a message. ‘You want to stop stuffing the military maw, Congresswoman? Fine. We’ll move the Next Generation Air Dominance contract out of your district and have Lockheed Martin build billions of dollars’ worth of next-generation fighter jets in Fort Worth, instead. Where we have a representative who knows her place.’”

She was suddenly scared. “That’s five thousand jobs.”

“Yeah, that’s clearly their point.”

She didn’t answer. Two minutes of joy, and then this.

Come on, Valeria. Did you think this was going to be easy? That they weren’t going to hit back?

Preston’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. “It’s Dunne again.”

She felt an irrational pang of fear. “What, is he taking back his concession?”

He shook his head, obviously as perplexed as she was. “I don’t know.”

She pushed away the feeling that everything was already crumbling—that somehow her victory, which she hadn’t yet even fully accepted as real, was about to be snatched away—and took the phone.

“Fillian,” she said, projecting much more calm than she felt. “It’s been too long.”

“I assume you saw the news?”

“What news?”

“Hah, playing dumb. You’re getting the hang of it already. Listen, I know you just got handed your first major dilemma. Maybe I can help.”

All the warm feelings his graciousness had prompted earlier were suddenly gone, replaced by suspicion.

“Why would you want to help me?”

“The people who work at Plant 42 have been my constituents for twenty years, Valeria. The workers and their families. I know we have different priorities. But if there’s a way to save those jobs, shouldn’t you and I try to find it?”

How could anyone argue with that? But the question made her wary. It reminded her of her mother, Josie, who had always asked similarly irrefutable questions: Don’t you want the teacher to know how smart you are? Don’t you want to get asked to the dance? Don’t you want to know why your father really left us?

“What do you have in mind?”

“I have a few ideas. But to start with, there’s a guy you should know. He’s a bit . . . different. But you’ll appreciate how his messaging acumen can help you spin the tires when you think you’re stuck.”

“What do you mean, ‘different’?”

“His name is Montgomery Cranston. He’s helped me wriggle through plenty of tight spots. If he likes you, he might help you, too. You interested?”

Was the Pentagon moving NGAD out of Palmdale a tight spot? It actually felt much worse than that. Worse than her misgivings about Dunne.

She glanced at Preston and nodded. “I’m interested,” she said.

CHAPTER 2

Only revealed injustice can be answered; for man to do anything intelligent he has to know what’s actually going on.

—Julian Assange

Tara was peeking through the venetian blinds again and Thaddeus was getting pissed. “Do you have any idea what that looks like from outside?” he said.

She glanced at him and tilted her head as though he was being ridiculous. “No one’s out there, Lance.”

“Then why are you looking?”

“Because this room is boring.”

It was always like this right before a big upload. She’d pretend to be tired of the whole thing, dance right up to the edge of his security precautions and sometimes even past them, and then they’d finish the upload and be so turned on by the risks they’d just taken and the rush of completion and the friction of all the half-fake, half-real animosity that had been building up between them that they’d fuck like wild animals. And it was hard to say which was more of a turn-on, what they’d just done or the possibility that the FBI might kick down the door in the midst of the proceedings.

“It’ll be a lot less boring if we’re getting arrested in it,” he said.

“At this point, I think I’d take it. Can you even remember where we are?”

“Kentucky. Lexington.”

“What motel?”

That one took him a second longer. The muted sounds of nearby Interstate 75 helped—he remembered seeing the sign from the highway the night before.

“Comfort Inn,” he said. “And before that, the Holiday Inn Express in Indianapolis. And before that, the SpringHill Suites in Schaumburg. I told you, it has to be this way for a while.”

The heat kicked on with a clang and they both jumped. She shook her head. “It’s always going to be this way.”

“Only until this batch of burners and laptops is spent. Then we can go anywhere you like. Someplace warm. San Diego. Honolulu. Okay?”

She turned back to the window.

He let a second go by, then a few more, trying to stay calm. Finally, he said, “Surveillance could see a venetian blind being parted from anywhere in that parking lot. You’re making it easier for them to see us than it is for us to see them.”

“I told you, no one’s out there. And if I’m wrong, I’ll spot them, too.”

“How does a fucking tie work for us?”

She flicked the blinds hard. The plastic rattled. “You’re an asshole.”

He shut the laptop. “Are you trying to distract me?”

She turned toward him, crossing her arms and deepening the cleavage already showing in the V-neck of her tee shirt. “Yeah, everything is about you.”

He knew she was baiting him, which on the one hand was irritating, but on the other hand God he loved it. She was only twenty-two, but so fucking smart. And passionate. And stubborn. Everything between them was a battle. Covering up her tats when they were out, because they were too noticeable and memorable. Ditto losing the electric-pink dyed hair and the clothes that revealed too much of her insanely voluptuous body. It wasn’t just him she liked to provoke, either; it was everybody, though the good news he supposed was that when she couldn’t provoke anyone else, she directed all that energy to him, and the only thing she seemed to enjoy more than bucking his authority was giving in to him once he’d made it plain that he knew better. Maybe one day she’d feel confident enough to dump him and go off on her own, find another revolution to join, another guy closer to her age. He was almost thirty, and though the gap would matter less with the passage of time, he gave himself only a four percent chance of making it to forty. Neither of his parents had made it that far, but he doubted it would be genetics that did him in. The opposition he’d stirred up was far more dangerous than biology.

“You want to do something by that window?” he said. “Help me set up the satellite router. Then come over here and let’s upload the latest batch. And then watch the reactions.”

Her arms were still crossed. She was doing it on purpose—she knew her rack was spectacular. “Oh, you know what I want, do you?”

He felt himself getting hard. “If it’s the same thing I want.”

She made him wait so long he almost thought she was going to say no. But then she gave him a sexy smirk and started pulling the equipment out of her backpack.

CHAPTER 3

Politics is the entertainment division of the military-industrial complex.

—Frank Zappa

Valeria was flopped on her back on the living room couch, so exhausted she was almost paralyzed. Preston lay parallel on the floor, holding her hand. It was two in the morning and the party had still been going strong when they’d left. Valeria didn’t want to seem ungrateful by heading home early, but at some point she realized no one was going anywhere before she did.

“Oh my God,” she managed to say.

Preston chuckled. “Shit got real.”

“A little too real. Pentagon pricks couldn’t give us one night to celebrate?”

“Look at it this way. If they weren’t lashing out, it would mean they’re not afraid of you. If they weren’t afraid of you, it would mean we’re doing something wrong.”

She supposed that was true. It was a high-profile upset—certainly the biggest in this election, maybe among the biggest ever. The press was going nuts over it. And she’d received so many congratulatory texts she’d given up on even trying to skim through them, let alone responding. She had managed to talk briefly with her mother and brother. Both had been effusive. But as was often the case, Josie’s glee at Valeria’s successes didn’t feel only like vicarious pride, but also like some instrument of proxy revenge against Héctor’s ghost. And Mateo was also true to form. He’d made some of his usual cracks, the humor of which was never enough to completely conceal an underlying tinge of envy or resentment.

Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, she thought. But she pushed the family shit away. Tonight was hers and Preston’s.

“Pres,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “When you convinced me to do this . . . did you really believe we could win?”

“One hundred percent. Didn’t I say so?”

“Well, you said, but . . .”

“What about you?”

“Maybe . . . one percent.”

He laughed. “If you’d really thought only one percent, we never would have made it. I think you believe in yourself more than you realize, Val.”

She squeezed his hand. “You make me believe.”

She remembered how he’d first suggested it, at Gamble in Santa Monica, Dennis’s first restaurant. Their romance had kindled over a common passion for politics, but their activism was limited to volunteering for a few local candidates and a single fizzled presidential campaign. Dennis wanted to open a new restaurant in Antelope Valley, where real estate was cheap and the local food scene less competitive. One night, unwinding over a drink at the bar after closing time, Preston told Valeria they should move to Lancaster and she should run for Fillian Dunne’s seat.

She’d laughed at the absurdity. Everyone knew Fillian Dunne was unbeatable. In the last three elections, he’d been returned to office with something like eighty percent of the vote. He had a campaign budget bigger than the GDP of small nations, and ruled California’s 27th District like a king from an impregnable castle.

“That’s exactly what makes him vulnerable,” Preston had said. “It’s not just everyone else who thinks he’s unbeatable. He thinks so, too. He’s like a champion who hasn’t been challenged, hasn’t had a real fight, in years. He’s complacent. Out of shape.”

She’d laughed again, but he wouldn’t let it go. “He won’t take you seriously,” he said. “He’ll look at you and see a nobody from Pacoima, barely dry behind the ears. A bartender, for God’s sake. Yeah, he’s got a war chest, but he won’t touch it. He won’t think he needs to, and besides he wants to save it, because if he becomes Speaker of the House as everyone expects, he’ll need the money to run for president against Whetter. Conventional armies have lost to guerillas plenty of times, Val. You could beat him.”

Like Dunne, Ben Whetter was another ten-term corporatist, and as devoted a servant of the Pentagon as could be found in Congress. Widely considered to be another possibility for Speaker, he was also expected to be one of Dunne’s primary opponents in the next presidential election.

She thought he must be drunk. “Why don’t you run?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I don’t have star power.”

“Please. Like I do.”

“Don’t say that. That’s the only thing holding you back. You don’t see the way customers look at you. And it’s not just because you’re beautiful—”

“You don’t have to butter me up, Pres. You know when we get home I’m going to do you anyway.”

He laughed. “I’m not trying to butter you up. You don’t get the way people respond to you. You’re smart and passionate and fast on your feet. People are going to see you, and they’ll be attracted to you because you’re a beautiful woman but also a beautiful person. And they’ll want to be in your orbit, and they’ll want to follow you. And when they respond to you that way, it’ll increase your confidence, and . . . you’ll grow into what they see. And they’ll love you more and you’ll become more worthy of their love. It’ll be a virtuous cycle.”

For whatever reason, the flattery—or whatever it was—had made her nervous. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “I’m definitely not letting you drive home in this condition.”

“I’m totally serious, Val. I don’t have your charisma. Even you don’t have it, not yet, not all of it. But I see things you don’t. About you. About Dunne. I’d be a good advisor. And campaign manager. We’d be such a good team.”

“Why not just stay here in Santa Monica and run against Luiz? It would still be hard, but not as impossible as against Dunne.”

“No, that’s the whole point. Hard is impossible. Impossible is opportunity.”

She laughed. “My campaign manager, Yoda.”

“Luiz doesn’t think he’s invulnerable. He’s wary. He thinks like a junkyard dog guarding his territory. Dunne thinks like a king. His eye is on other realms, not his own provinces.”

“Well, you come at the king, you best not miss.”

During the campaign, it had become a refrain for the two of them. Will this approach work? How devastating will it be? Could it backfire? Because if you come at the king, you best not miss.

Well, they hadn’t missed. But the Pentagon seemed intent on making her wish they had.

CHAPTER 4

If we understand the mechanisms and motives of the group mind, is it not possible to control and regiment the masses according to our will without their knowing it?

—Edward Bernays, Propaganda

Montgomery Cranston walked into the Department of the Interior conference room expecting the customary confusion. Instead, he found chaos.

A dozen officials were milling around the room’s long, rectangular table, all talking over one another, the resulting bedlam causing everyone to shout to try to be heard. He caught fragments of multiple conversations twisting together and then unraveling in a cacophony of controlled panic: Emergency disconnect system . . . blowout preventer . . . backup shutdown failure . . .

Some of the faces he recognized—officials from the Environmental Protection Agency, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, and of course various bureaus of the Interior Department itself. But he didn’t see who he was looking for.

“Who is OEPC here?” he called out. But no one heard him, it was too loud and they were all too focused on themselves trying to be heard. Even in the best of times, humans liked talking more than listening. More than they wanted to understand, they needed to feel understood.

“Office of Environmental Policy and Compliance,” he called out, louder this time. “Who represents the Office of Environmental Policy and Compliance?”

The cacophony abated a little, as he had hoped. A petite woman with a strained expression walked toward him. “I’m the OEPC representative,” she said. “Julia Hoang.”

The woman’s nervousness agitated him, and he could feel his body wanting to rock back and forth. But he didn’t let it. His parents had taught him that repetitive behaviors like rocking made humans uncomfortable.

“What happened to Menders?” he said.

“He’s with BSEE now.”

“Isn’t BSEE here, too?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Cranston blew out a breath. If no one had thought to include an official from the Bureau of Safety and Environmental Enforcement, they were really in disarray. Well, at least someone had thought to call him.

He turned back to the assemblage. “Who here knows that questions have a pitch different from those of assertions?” he called out.

The yammering flickered more. Then, as people realized that others had stopped talking, it guttered entirely.

“That’s why you heard me,” he went on, no longer needing to shout. “It wasn’t my volume so much that reached you as it was the tone of a question. On top of which, questions tend to engage people. Either they know the answer and want to share it, or they wonder if they know, which gets them to pause and think. Regardless, paradoxically a question can be a good way to get someone to stop talking, if only for a moment.”

They were silent now, staring at him as though he had suddenly sprouted antennae. It was okay. People had been looking at him that way for as long as he could remember.

“My name is Montgomery Cranston, and I’m here on behalf of the Secretary of the Interior, who has asked for my assistance in coordinating our response. If you’ve seen with your own eyes what we’re dealing with, please speak up.”

A bearded man in oil-stained coveralls said, “I seen it. And then some.”

Cranston would have made the man as a roughneck even without the coveralls. It was his size, his solidity. And the indentation around his hairline, left by a hard hat he must have worn almost constantly and probably felt half naked without.

“What’s your name?”

“Grove. Mark Grove. Toolpusher on the rig.”

“May I call you Mark?”

“Sure.”

“It’s good that you gave your name, Mark. It’ll make you feel more responsible for the accuracy of what you report. And my calling you by your first name will help make you comfortable talking to me.”

Grove frowned. “What?”

“I’ve been informed there has been an incident at the Yamaloka oil-drilling platform off the coast of Louisiana. What happened?”

Grove stared at him. After a moment, he said, “We don’t know exactly. Right now, it looks worse than the Deepwater Horizon disaster—”

Cranston shook his head. “Not disaster. Everyone knows what the Deepwater Horizon was. No need to embellish or otherwise characterize.”

“Whatever. All the redundancies we put in place following Deepwater Horizon seem to have failed. There was an explosion, we think of a methane bubble, and the rig sank. We lost six men and personally I think we were lucky not to have lost more.”

“Don’t say that. The rig didn’t explode and sink. That’s not helpful.”

“You got mud in your ears? I just told you—”

“It collapsed. You say the rig collapsed. If you say it blew up, you create scary images—bombs, terrorists, Nine-Eleven. By contrast, small things collapse, and when they do, it’s discrete. For example, ‘Grandma passed out and collapsed.’ There isn’t any fire or smoke. Better imagery for us.”

Grove looked left and right as though seeking reassurance. But everyone in the room was as nonplussed as he was.

“Fine,” Grove said after a moment. “The rig collapsed. And somehow this collapse tore a huge fucking gash in the seabed, and—”

“Please don’t swear. Swearing is unprofessional, and public confidence depends to a significant extent on our appearance of professionalism. This is why Transportation Safety Administration personnel wear their distinctive blue uniforms.”

Grove stared. “Are you kidding me?”

“No. People have tried to teach me, but I don’t know how.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a joker.”

“I don’t know how to joke, either. Do you see that as I describe how to proceed, I’ve been using the plural pronouns we and us? In other contexts, this could be called forced teaming, which is bad, but here it fosters cooperation and a sense of common purpose.”

Grove scrunched up his face and slowly shook his head. Cranston recognized the meaning: What the fuck? Still, that Grove hadn’t voiced the sentiment was evidence of progress. The man was struggling to keep up overall, but at least the admonition against profanity was sinking in.

“In addition to not swearing,” he went on, “we need to steer clear of words like gash, which has connotations of violence and blood. Also we need to be careful of adjectives like huge. In fact, I don’t want us using adjectives at all. They make it sound like we’re trying too hard. We’ll manage this story with two well-chosen words: leak and spill. Now, Mark, can you tell me how much oil is leaking?”

Grove stared at him for a moment, then said, “Have you seen the underwater imagery? It looks like Mount Vesuvius erupting oil out of the seabed. Our best guess at this point is at least 60,000 barrels a day.”

Cranston wanted to explain to Grove that words like erupt and imagery like Mount Vesuvius would be perfect if they were trying to cause damage rather than perform damage control. But he suppressed the urge. Humans learned in different ways and at different rates, and sometimes correcting a person too much too quickly could be counterproductive.

“That’s not good,” Cranston said. “We can’t say that, at least not right away.”

“Well, it is what it is.”

“We don’t know what it is. You just said yourself that you’re guessing. We’ll start with a low number—let’s make it a thousand barrels a day.”

“Look, you can’t just say it and make it so. There’s—”

“Isn’t it true that the leak includes a thousand barrels a day?”

Grove snorted. “Yeah, and another 59,000 barrels on top of that.”

“We don’t have to mention the second part. Not yet. In fact, doing so would be irresponsible because as you just pointed out, we don’t really know. We’re guessing. So I want us to guess lower.”

“Guess lower?”

“We’ll start with the lower number to ease the incident into the public’s consciousness. Once they realize there’s a spill, we can gradually walk up the number without unduly upsetting people. We’ll be sure to use the word estimate in connection with all numbers. That way, we’ll have the necessary flexibility to increase the numbers as we gain more information.”

“I don’t understand what difference any of this makes,” Hoang said. “We’re not the ones who are going to control the words used to describe this . . . incident. The media will call it whatever they want.”

Cranston looked at her. OEPC would be spearheading media outreach. He wasn’t completely surprised that someone this inept had been put in charge—it was hardly the first time. Well, hopefully she wasn’t ineducable.

“Why do you think that?” he said.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like we can control the media . . .”

“Control isn’t a good word. It sounds totalitarian. Persuade is better.”

Hoang shook her head. “Come on, whatever you call it . . .”

“I called it persuasion when I got the media to refer to the people we were holding at Guantanamo as detainees rather than prisoners. Detainee is much better, wouldn’t you agree? Students get detained for failing to turn in their homework. Nothing to get excited about.”

The room had gone silent, and he went on. “And have you noticed that the media has dropped assassinations and now uses the soothingly dry phrase targeted killings, instead?”

More silence. “The Rules-Based International Order,” he said. “Useful when actual international laws are inconvenient because who could be against order and rules? But really it means the U.S. government makes the rules and gives the orders.”

They were staring at him again, but in a different way now. Their silence no longer felt skeptical, or even quizzical. More like a door that had opened.

“Nor is it a coincidence that America doesn’t do invasions, only interventions. Which don’t inflict casualties but only produce collateral damage. Also not a coincidence that if you’re against interventions, you must be an isolationist. And no one wants to be an isolationist. Because generally humans fear being alone.”

He realized he’d slipped saying humans instead of people. His parents had taught him not to refer to the humans that way because it made them uncomfortable. But this time, no one seemed to notice. A few people chuckled, even though he’d already told them he didn’t know how to joke.

There were so many more fascinating examples he might have shared. But he sensed they already understood about as much as they would be able to.

“All right,” Hoang said. “But how do we stop it?”

They all looked at him expectantly, even Grove.

“I’m sure there’s a way,” Cranston said. “Remember, it’s just a leak.

CHAPTER 5

Politics is the shadow cast on society by big business.

—John Dewey

Valeria sat in the hushed Tyson’s Corner Ritz Carlton conference room, all wood-paneled walls and thick carpeting and stylish leather furniture. Dennis’s restaurants were high-end, but it was one thing to work in a place, another to be served there, and she was anxious. She took a sip of coffee from a delicate porcelain cup and had to admit it was delicious—though how much of that was the coffee and how much the presentation she wasn’t really sure.

Preston, sitting next to her, was looking left and right as though anticipating an ambush. “I don’t like it,” he said. “We should have just met at Dunne’s office.”

“I told you, he said we could. But he thought we’d be better off keeping this meeting private.”

Preston threw up his hands. “I don’t even understand who this guy Cranston is. There’s almost nothing about him on the Internet. Plus Dunne acting like he’s your new BFF, and setting up a meeting at this fancy hotel, which by the way is totally not in keeping with your brand—”

“Fillian said Cranston doesn’t advertise, so—”

“When did he become ‘Fillian’?”

“Preston, we beat him, okay? He’s finished. We can afford to be magnanimous.”

He shook his head and looked away.

She waited a beat, then leaned closer and whispered, “You know you’re cute when you sulk.”

It was true, too. He had such beautiful lips, and when he pouted it always made her want to take advantage of him.

He looked at her sidelong. “You’re bad.”

She put a hand on his thigh. “I noticed there’s a lock on the door.”

“Uh-huh. And what are we going to tell Dunne and Cranston when they get here?”

“They’re political people. They’ll be late.”

“And if they’re not?”

She let her hand drift higher. “I’m a congresswoman-elect. They’ll wait.”

He shook his head. But she could tell he wanted to, and it excited her more. “You know I could order you,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you’d have to do whatever I tell you.”

He glanced at the door. “Come on, we can’t.”

She was totally turned on now. She stood and went around the table. “Val, this is crazy,” she heard him say.

She locked the door, then came back and stood behind him. “Face me.”

He spun the chair around and looked at her. He was flushed.

“Scoot down in that nice leather chair. And open your pants.”

“Val—”

“Stop wasting time,” she said, breathing hard. “Do as I tell you.”

He glanced at the door again, then eased his hips forward and unbuckled his belt. A moment later his pants were around his thighs, his erection straining against his boxers.

She bent her knees and reached under her skirt. Moving even a little she could feel how wet she was.

Preston was past protesting now. He slid his boxers down. She hooked her thumbs inside her panties, lowered them until they dropped, and stepped out of them. Then she raised her skirt, straddled his thighs, and took hold of him. He gasped.

“Shhh,” she whispered, pressing her fingers against his lips. “You have to be quiet.”

She guided him slowly into her. He moaned beneath her fingers and pushed up with his hips.

She paused and pressed her fingers more firmly against his mouth. “No. Hold still. Stay just like that.”

He moaned behind her hand and settled back into the seat. Staring into his eyes, she eased down again, then up a little, then down again, then more, until he was fully inside her. She waited a moment, still staring into his eyes, then started moving, relishing the feeling of having him under her control. She could feel the breath whistling out of his nose past her fingers and hear his soft groans and it was so hot, so fucking hot, she loved having him like this, making him do exactly what she wanted and how she wanted. And she loved that he loved it, too.

She could tell from his eyes that he was already close. “No,” she cooed. “Not yet, baby, you’re not allowed to come yet. Not until I tell you.” She started rubbing hard against the spot over his pubic bone, the way she needed to get off. He grunted and she knew it was hurting him but she rubbed harder, faster, and she felt her orgasm rolling in and she heard herself saying Good, okay, like that, yes, yes, yes, and she felt him coming and then she was coming, too, and she grabbed the back of his head and closed her mouth over his and sucked on his tongue and rode him the way she needed to and came and came and came.

When it was done she collapsed against him, and they stayed that way for a moment, foreheads and noses pressed together, catching their breath and laughing softly. She could feel a trickle under her thighs and was glad they had switched from condoms to an IUD. Maybe it was Pavlovian, but she loved that wetness afterward, and the accompanying sensation of him softening inside her. There was something so vulnerable involved, as though he wasn’t just spent from their lovemaking but was actually dissolving from it. It made her feel responsible for him, protective, and so achingly tender she could almost cry.

The handle of the door clicked against the lock. Preston froze under her. “Shit,” he breathed.

There was a knock. She jumped off Preston’s lap, snatched her panties from the floor, and pulled them up. Preston dragged his pants back into place and buckled his belt.

She walked quickly to the door and looked over at Preston: We good? He raked his hair back and nodded.

She smoothed her skirt, and then, trying to ignore the stickiness between her thighs, unlocked the door and opened it. There was Dunne, holding a briefcase and a Starbucks coffee awkwardly in the same hand. He raised his eyebrows. “Thought I had the wrong conference room.”

“Oh,” she said. “We just . . . you made it sound like it would be better if we kept this meeting private, so . . .”

She realized if he asked, Then why would you open the door without asking who’s there?, she would have no good answer. For a second she felt sure he knew, that they’d been busted like a couple of horny kids. But no, probably she was being paranoid. Preston’s influence.

“Absolutely,” Dunne said, walking in. “With a little privacy, you can get away with all sorts of things in this town.”

Valeria sensed he was suppressing a smile, and instantly changed her mind about being paranoid. Well, fuck him if he has a problem with it. I’m the congressperson now. She closed the door and went back around the table.

Preston stood and offered a hand. “Congressman.”

Dunne set down his bag and coffee and shook Preston’s hand. “Not much longer,” he said with a chuckle. “Thanks to the two of you.”

Valeria was surprised his tone wasn’t at all bitter. If anything, it was . . . buoyant. Her mind flashed to an O. Henry story she’d read as a kid, The Ransom of Red Chief, about a child so obnoxious that when he’s kidnapped the parents are actually relieved.

Dunne took a seat across from them. “Montie’s running late,” he said. “A meeting at the Department of the Interior. That oil spill off Louisiana.”

Valeria had seen something about a Gulf spill on the news, though reports were vague. “How bad is it?”

Dunne shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, it’s going to be classified as an SONS—a Spill of National Significance. Like the Deepwater Horizon incident. But in the end, still just a spill.”

“Can I ask you something?” Preston said.

There was a pause. “Sure,” Dunne said.

Preston’s tone had been notably direct, and Valeria thought she knew where he was going. But she didn’t like the timing any more than the tone.

“We appreciate that you want to keep the NGAD program in Palmdale,” Preston said. “And we’re looking forward to meeting Cranston and hearing your thoughts on strategy. But—”

“You want to know why I’m dealing in Valeria.”

It was as Valeria had thought. She and Preston had talked about Dunne’s motives. But she hadn’t expected Preston to bring it up so soon, or so abruptly. Was he trying to catch Dunne off guard? Did he feel protective of her immediately after their lovemaking?

Preston nodded. “Pretty much.”

Dunne looked at Valeria. “You want the truth? Or the whole truth?”

She smiled, hoping it would obscure her irritation with Preston. “Does anyone ever answer that question other than ‘the whole truth’?”

“No,” Dunne said. “But I like to offer the option.”

When she didn’t answer, he said, “The truth is that as I’ve told you, I want to protect those jobs.”

“Really?” Preston said. “I mean, ultimately those people voted you out of office. Why do you care? I think most people would enjoy the schadenfreude, a little How-you-like-me-now? fuck-you laugh.”

She and Preston had used exactly those phrases when they’d been trying to divine Dunne’s motives—and one more, too, a flip of the bird as you ride off into the sunset. But that was when it was just the two of them. What was the point of being so aggressive about it to Dunne’s face?

Dunne looked at him. “I don’t know which of those people voted for Valeria and which voted for me. I do know none of their kids voted at all. Would you prefer that I punish everyone just to get back at whichever people were foolish enough to vote for the wrong candidate?”

Valeria smiled at the way he put it. “So what’s the whole truth?”

Dunne shifted his gaze to her. “The whole truth is that if you’re not part of the package, Valeria, I have less of a chance of selling it.”

“Why? What do I have to offer?”

“Here’s the good news,” Dunne said. “The Pentagon takes you seriously. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have moved the program, which is about punishing you. The bad news is the way they take you seriously. They see you as a threat. So you need to make nice with them. Show them you know when competition should give way to cooperation.”

“Cooperation?” Preston said. “No. You mean cooptation.”

Jesus, Preston, ease up, we can read between the lines, you don’t have to call him out every time—

“This move isn’t about the program,” Dunne said, ignoring Preston’s jab. “It’s about Valeria. And Valeria, if you don’t make nice with the Pentagon, then no matter what else I can put together to get the decisionmakers to see the error of their ways, my chances of getting them to keep the program in Palmdale are much lower.”

For once, Preston held back, and for a moment they were all quiet. Valeria said, “What if the Pentagon doesn’t want to play nice?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to,” Dunne said. “But if we don’t at least try, the program is gone. And five thousand jobs gone with it.”

CHAPTER 6

When a person is elected, he may have some ideas. Then people with briefcases arrive, well dressed, wearing dark suits. These people start explaining how things are done. And instantly, everything changes. This is what happens with every administration.

—Vladimir Putin

Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Walls sat at his desk at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, shaking his head in disgust at the report he was reading.

The Pentagon did all it could to warn defense contractors about the nature and extent of the global threat. Rogue states. Russian honeytraps. Spear phishing and keyloggers and fake WAPs. Travel to China, certain technology executives were advised, and a laptop or phone left in a hotel room could have its contents extracted, analyzed, cross-referenced, and shared. After which, your communications might be monitored, your online behavior mirrored and stored. If you were determined to be of sufficient interest, the Ministry of State Security would then use next-generation AI to continue tracking you long after your flight home, all the way to the computer in your office, all the way to the voice-enabled speakers in your own bedroom.

And yet these idiots couldn’t keep out a lone anarchist hacker like Lance fucking Thaddeus.

He tossed the report onto his desk, followed by his reading glasses, then leaned back in the chair and looked out the window. It wasn’t exactly a stunning vista—Arlington, Virginia wasn’t known for those. Still, it was the seventh floor, the highest, and located on the southwest side, which had the best afternoon light and the only views not marred by adjacent buildings. So in absolute terms, nothing to brag about, but still the best DARPA had to offer. Which was befitting the new head of the agency’s Strategic Technology Office, charged with developing and deploying bleeding-edge technologies like general artificial intelligence.

The public didn’t understand how hard the Chinese were working to leverage scientific breakthroughs and use them against America. Neither party yet had the decisive advantage, but the Chinese recognized that even with their dramatically increased military spending, their only real hope of leapfrogging America was through disruptive technologies. Drones. Hypersonic missiles. Cyber.

But most of all, AI.

AI was the one thing that kept Walls awake at night. First, out of fear. Fear of a Chinese Sputnik moment, something that would suddenly unveil previously undreamed-of capabilities and in a stroke upend the current balance of power. But second, out of excitement. Because if America got there first, then combined with the Pentagon’s current military advantage, the multiplier effect would be immeasurable. It would be years, maybe decades, before China could hope to catch up.

And now this anarchist, this narcissist, this traitorous megalomaniac dimwit cybercriminal Lance Thaddeus had hacked into the systems of America’s most promising AI startups and uploaded all the stolen information to a collection of useful idiots in the media.

And the worst part was, if the media’s ComSec was weak enough for their newsrooms to be monitored by Walls’s former colleagues in DIA Counterintelligence, then the Chinese damn well were monitoring them, too. Meaning now the MSS knew just how far America’s AI efforts still had to go before they’d be decisive in, say, thwarting a Chinese attempt to take over Taiwan and deny its semiconductor industry to the global supply chain.

An extremely disquieting thought came to him:

Could Thaddeus have learned about Götterdämmerung?

No. There was nothing in the report to suggest Thaddeus had breached any Pentagon systems. Only private-sector ones.

But the absence of evidence was never evidence of absence. And DIA only knew about the private-sector intrusions because it was monitoring media newsrooms. It wasn’t impossible Thaddeus had information about Götterdämmerung he’d acquired from a separate theft and hadn’t shared yet. After all, it was his way to upload on single topics, from a single series of breaches, and only after carefully compiling all the purloined information to make it as attractive as possible to his media partners in crime.

In fact, maybe the current AI dump was a kind of amuse-bouche, intended to whet appetites for the main course to come: Götterdämmerung.

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, slowly, in and out. It didn’t pay to get agitated. Malcontents were just part of life. Look at the losers who chained themselves across roads in the name of protesting climate change, and blocked good, decent people from getting to and from their jobs. Or who destroyed Renaissance paintings to garner the attention they craved. Thaddeus was more technically capable, but the fundamentals were the same. These creatures were disaffected. Dissatisfied. Emotionally imbalanced. And they told themselves the source of their agitation was something in the world—something other people had to be made to pay for—rather than some defect in themselves.

The strange thing was, a part of him understood. The world was an ugly place. A terrible place. Of course there was love, and beauty, and so many other things that any decent person ought to cherish. But the more you had, the more other people would want to take it, whether out of want, or need, or simply out of perversity. You didn’t have to be a student of Thucydides to recognize the truth of the Melian Dialogue: The strong do what they will and the weak suffer what they must.

After all, did America use its historically unprecedented power for historically unprecedented goodness? Of course not. America used its power the way the Athenians had used theirs. And the Hans, and the Romans, and the Mongols, the Ottomans, the Russians, the British, the Soviets. The way the Chinese would use theirs if people like Lance Thaddeus were allowed to continue acting out, and wound up upsetting the balance of power that for now made America the strong party and China the weak one.

The problem wasn’t that the government was unconcerned. The FBI had been after Thaddeus for years, and in fact the Justice Department had indicted him under the Espionage Act two administrations ago. The problem was, it had all amounted to nothing. Thaddeus was still at large, still hacking, still vandalizing national security, and all the while laughing at the people trying to stop him.

But enough was enough. It was fine to be humane when a rodent got into your house. But when humane methods weren’t working, and the rodent continued to despoil your food supply, at some point humanity became a luxury the rodent’s own behavior would no longer allow.

Walls still had the right contacts from his Counterintelligence days—not just in DIA, but in CIA and the private sector, as well. Most of those men, he knew, were as fed up as he was.

Maybe it was time to change their methods.

CHAPTER 7

I wouldn’t want to join a club that would have me as a member.

—Groucho Marx

There was a knock on the conference room door.

“Ah,” Dunne said, standing. “Maybe they wrapped earlier at Interior than Montie expected.”

He was going to the door. Valeria wondered if she should try to preempt him—which would make it seem more like she was in charge, if she ushered Cranston in, or Dunne did? But it was already too late. And besides, maybe she was being silly. As she’d said to Preston: Dunne was the past. She was the future. She didn’t need to be ostentatious about it. Or petty.

Dunne opened the door. A forty-something white man stood on the other side of it. Unlike Dunne, his hands were empty—no briefcase, no coffee. Also unlike Dunne, this man’s suit felt like something other than an afterthought—a well-tailored gray jacket that hugged the back of his collar; crisp white shirt; dimpled blue tie.

“Montie,” Dunne said. “Thanks for coming. We could use your help.”

The two men shook. Valeria didn’t like the we. Dunne had framed this meeting in terms of what would be good for his soon-to-be-former constituents, but she knew there had to be more to it than that. And now he was acting like they were some kind of team. She reminded herself again that Dunne was, well, done.

“Montgomery Cranston,” Dunne said, closing the door behind Cranston, “meet Congresswoman Valeria Velez. And her campaign manager, Preston Jante.”

Cranston extended a hand to Valeria and they shook. “Please,” he said. “Call me Montie.”

Valeria considered responding in kind. She’d already told Dunne to call her Valeria—but they were colleagues, at least in a sense. How did Cranston address Dunne? Though that was different, they’d known each other for years.

It irritated her that she was thinking so much about these things. She never had before.

Still, maybe the safest course was just to steer clear of how he should address her. “Montie it is,” she said.

Cranston smiled. There was something odd about the smile. It wasn’t the practiced version she’d come to expect among the political class, where the person looked deeply into your eyes as though wanting to understand your soul. But there was something . . . inorganic about it. As though, if not exactly practiced, still something Cranston had learned.

“Congressman Dunne speaks extremely highly of you,” Preston said, and he and Cranston shook.

Cranston looked at Dunne. “You haven’t asked him to call you Fillian?”

Dunne laughed. “We haven’t really had a chance. He was too busy mauling me on the campaign trail.”

Cranston looked at Valeria. “When people are on a first-name basis, it reduces barriers and fosters a sense of common purpose. And of course a nickname or shortened version of a name enhances the effect. That’s why I invite people to call me Montie.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She looked at Dunne—Is this what you meant by “different”?—but he offered only a tiny shrug in response.

Preston saved the day with an entirely natural sounding, “Of course.”

Valeria gestured to the chair next to Dunne’s. “Montie, please.”

They all sat. Preston picked up the carafe and looked at Cranston. “Coffee?”

Cranston shook his head. “No, thank you. It makes me fidgety.”

“That means you’re doing it right,” Preston said. Valeria and Dunne both chuckled, but Cranston seemed almost not to have heard.

“Well,” Valeria said, thinking she should do something to show that she was in charge of whatever the day’s agenda might be, “as Preston mentioned, Montie, Fillian speaks very highly of you. He thought you could be helpful with all sorts of messaging, and particularly with something that’s already come up.”

She thought Cranston might have some response to that, but he said nothing.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she went on, “but the Pentagon announced that they’re planning to move production of the Next Generation Air Dominance program from my district in Palmdale to Nancy Byer in Fort Worth.”

“I told them that was a bad name,” Cranston said. “Dominance. Too aggressive. Better to call it Next Generation Air Defense. But they wouldn’t listen, which is strange because after all they are the Defense Department.”

Preston said, “You advise the Pentagon?”

Cranston nodded. “And the intelligence community is even worse. I told them not to call their email sniffing program Carnivore, and that Total Information Awareness would sound Orwellian even to someone who’d never read Orwell, but they went ahead anyway. And then word got out and Congress cancelled the programs. But we renamed everything Guardian Angel and now Congress is happy. Of course. Why wouldn’t they be? Who doesn’t want a guardian angel?”

Valeria didn’t know what to make of it. It didn’t feel like pontificating. It was more like a mind being turned inside out, revealing the hidden intentions behind the spoken words.

“Well,” Preston said, “at least they know to call themselves an intelligence ‘community.’”

Cranston smiled and rocked slightly in his chair. His enthusiasm reminded Valeria of Ms. Karim, her freshman algebra professor at San Jose State, ordinarily a dour woman who would brighten the same way when a student offered a solution Ms. Karim hadn’t expected the student to come up with on her own.

“Yes,” Cranston said. “Intelligence apparatus sounds so cold and impersonal, while intelligence neighborhood would be over the top. Community has just the right note of collegiality and good will. Who doesn’t want to be part of a community?”

“Okay,” Valeria said, “but whatever you want to call it—”

“I like the way your campaign uses alliteration,” Cranston said. “Incestuous insider trading. The maw of the military machine. Alliteration can make an otherwise ordinary thought or phrase more compelling. This is why I advised the new Space Force that its mission should be to detect, deter, and defeat. And why, when I discuss a potential policy in terms of principles, parameters, and preferences, people believe in the concept before I even explain it.”

She saw a text alert pop up on her phone. She touched the screen and was surprised to see the message was from Dunne. She hadn’t even noticed he’d been typing.

Don’t worry, the text said. This just means he likes you.

“I think alliteration will help you here, too,” Cranston said. “This isn’t stuffing the maw, this is smart spending. In addition to the alliteration, smart is always appealing. It’s one of the traits Americans most admire, ahead of wisdom, empathy, and compassion, exceeded only by fairness. Which by the way is why Fair enough? can be such a powerful phrase to deploy when negotiating with an American. Who wants to be thought of as unfair?”

“Wait a minute,” Preston said. “We don’t even know what we’re going to do yet. We don’t have a product and you’ve already decided how we’re going to package it?”

Cranston blinked. “The packaging is the product.”

Valeria didn’t like that Preston was pushing back. She wanted to hear more. But she didn’t want them to seem out of sync.

“If I may?” Dunne said.

Valeria was relieved not to have to overtly intervene. “Please,” she said.

Dunne leaned forward. “The Pentagon says it’s moving NGAD production to Nancy Byer in Fort Worth because they’ve determined Air Force Plant 4 capabilities will make production there more efficient. Of course, they can claim anything they want, because the NGAD specs are top secret. But we all know what’s really happening here. They want to kneecap Valeria, and they’re not even waiting until she’s been sworn in.”

He looked at Valeria. “As I said, the good news is, moving the program means they take you seriously. And the bad news is, if you let them get away with it, if you let them kill five thousand jobs in our—in your—district, two years from now I don’t care how much good you’ve done for the country or the world or whatever, all that will matter is what you’ve done locally. You’ll be crucified for those lost jobs. The workers . . . not only will they not vote for you, they’ll campaign against you.”

“So be it,” Preston said. “We didn’t run this race to please the Pentagon.”

Cranston smiled his slightly odd smile. “Good alliteration.”

“Whatever,” Preston said. “Someone in this town has to stand for something other than business as usual.”

No question about that. But still . . .

“What I’m saying,” Dunne continued, “is that if Valeria is a one-term congressperson, business as usual is exactly what things will go back to. That’s what the Pentagon wants.”

Valeria was surprised at how disturbing that phrase was—one-term congressperson. Of course Preston was right, and of course she agreed with him. But he wouldn’t be the one the media derided, who would be dismissed as a freak of luck and a fluke. Sure, give her credit for recognizing Dunne was washed up before anyone else did, but knocking out a has-been doesn’t make you a champion. Look what happened as soon as she had to square off against a real fighter.

“I’ll give you this,” Preston said. “They weren’t inclined to move production while you were the one receiving the pork.”

Dunne looked at him. “Are you going to tell those five thousand workers their jobs were just pork?”

Preston held up his hands in an Okay, okay gesture.

Dunne turned to Valeria. “You have to understand. They don’t like your rhetoric. Now, if you have a voting record they’re comfortable with, you can use any rhetoric you like, they’re grownups and they’ll understand. But right now, your rhetoric is all they have to go on. And I have to say, when you go off about the wastefulness of defense spending, you sound sincere.”

“I am sincere.”

“Then take the Pentagon’s move as a compliment. Look, they’re not canceling the program. They’re just moving it. The money’s been allocated and it’s going to be spent no matter what. The only question is whether it’ll get spent in your district, or whether Nancy Byer will get it in Texas’s 12th.”

Preston gave a harsh laugh. “The scuttlebutt is, the NGAD prototypes don’t even fly. They should cancel the program.”

“They won’t,” Dunne said. “But you’re right about the development problems. What you might be missing is, those problems are precisely our opportunity.

The plural pronoun again. But this time it was welcome. “What are you thinking?” she said.

Dunne shrugged. “The truth is, the problem with the NGAD design isn’t that it’s bad. It’s that it’s too good. The plane’s high-G maneuverability is so extreme that test pilots keep losing consciousness. Inflating the flight vest sufficiently to compensate doesn’t leave room to even draw a breath, so again you get unconsciousness. They’ve tried upping the oxygen saturation, but even that’s not enough. And the damn thing accelerates so fast that it causes atelectasis—collapsed lungs.”

“That’s what you call ‘too good’?” Valeria said.

Dunne shrugged. “Let me put it another way. The problem isn’t the plane. The problem is the pilot.”

“You see?” Cranston said. “Alliteration.”

“And the solution,” Dunne went on, “is AI.”

Preston shook his head. “No way.”

Cranston said, “AI is smart, and that fits with smart spending. Synergy.”

“Fillian,” Valeria said. “Come on. You know my position on AI weapons. On AI generally.”

Dunne held up his hands as though in surrender. “We’re not talking about autonomous lethality. Only maneuverability and target acquisition.”

“You shouldn’t call it autonomous,” Cranston said. “Call it automated. Or better yet, automatic. Automatic doors. Automatic transmissions. Automatic coffee makers. People are used to automatic things. They like them.”

“Target acquisition,” Preston said. “You mean—”

“I don’t mean that. There would always be a human decisionmaker in the kill chain, just like there already is with drones.”

Preston threw up his hands. “Do you see how it works? Once upon a time, the idea of robot planes firing Hellfire missiles was controversial. Now it’s precedent.”

“It was controversial because it seemed new,” Dunne said. “But it really wasn’t. All we were doing was separating the pilot from the plane. But either way, the aircraft is still human-operated.”

“Look,” Valeria said. “Even if I were willing to back AI-controlled fighter jets—and I’m not—I don’t see how this would affect the Pentagon’s decision to move the program to Fort Worth.”

Dunne smiled. “First, Air Force Plant 4 has a Superfund problem. If it wanted to, the EPA could tie up the program there forever with red tape and court challenges.”

Valeria was intrigued. “Do they want to?”

Dunne’s smile broadened. “They might. With the right incentives. But rendering Fort Worth untenable is only half the battle. We still have to get the Pentagon brass to keep the program in its original home in Palmdale. Otherwise, they could as easily give it to Bill Louden in Georgia’s 11th.”

“I still don’t get it,” Valeria said. “What’s the AI angle?”

“A Silicon Valley startup called Dendrite. Which has exactly the technology to save the NGAD program. All Dendrite needs is someone who can get them in front of the right Pentagon decisionmakers, help them overcome institutional resistance to pilotless fighter jets, and secure the necessary financing to customize Dendrite’s AI to NGAD mission requirements.”

Preston frowned. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“I hadn’t, either,” Dunne said. “Until two days ago, when I accepted an offer from Daschle, Davis, Baishun. Effective only after I’ve formally left office, of course.”

Preston raised his eyebrows. “The lobbying outfit?”

Dunne nodded. “Not a bad consolation prize.”

“Wait a minute,” Valeria said. “Dendrite is your client?”

Dunne smiled. “Welcome to Washington, Congresswoman.”

CHAPTER 8

Mr. President, the only way you are ever going to get this is to make a speech and scare the hell out of the country.

—Senator Arthur Vandenberg

Valeria had been expecting something notably high-tech—banks of giant flat-panel monitors streaming rows of electronic data; blue-tinted LED lighting; a subterranean space so large it would echo. But the reality of the Dendrite conference room was more prosaic. Rather than banks of monitors, a single whiteboard. And instead of a blue-lit cave, a small, second-floor office filled with natural light, courtesy of a row of windows so close to the East Palo Alto stretch of Highway 101 that through them Valeria could not only see the passing traffic, but hear its muted roar, as well.

Still, while small and plain, the room was immaculate. Not a coffee ring on the table or smudge on the whiteboard. Even the windows sparkled, free of any trace of highway grime. She supposed the message to visiting investors was something like: We’re not wasting your money on frivolities, and we are very squared away.

Brandon Chen, Dendrite’s CEO, said nothing while Dunne made the pitch, instead periodically nodding and offering an Mmm to show his engagement. Brandon was thirty-eight, the son of a Taiwanese-American engineer father and white homemaker mother, and had founded Dendrite eight years earlier with his two younger brothers—Ryan, like Brandon a former Navy SEAL with several combat tours in Afghanistan; and the youngest, Nick, an MIT-educated tech wunderkind. Nick sat alongside Brandon, as quiet and intent as his older brother, though smaller and without the rugged good looks. Preston had filled her in on the brothers and all other aspects of Dendrite, while making plain his unease about what he had called “playing footsie with the military-industrial complex.” Valeria of course appreciated the briefing. But she hated not doing her own research. It felt weirdly like cheating.

The problem was, there was so little time for substance anymore. How many hours had she and Preston talked politics and philosophy and human nature on slow nights at the bar? Those talks were half of how they’d fallen in love. But now it was nothing but tactics and appearances and publicity. She’d expected the soul-destroying fundraising calls to slacken after the election, but it was the opposite—what people wanted to back more than anything was a winner, and with the next campaign officially starting in less than a year, she had to take advantage. On top of which, there was an avalanche of post-election interview requests by television personalities all vying to get close to the latest political It girl, the publicity from which translated into even higher phone-solicitation conversion rates and a bigger social media presence.

Dunne was getting to the end of the presentation. “To sum up,” he said, “we can think of a Dendrite-NGAD partnership as, A pilot without a plane for a plane without a pilot.”

Valeria hadn’t heard him say that before. It struck her as a good line—an oversimplification so perfect in its symmetry that objecting would feel like vandalism—and she wondered whether Cranston had come up with it. And, if so, why she hadn’t been in the loop.

Brandon nodded and offered what Valeria was beginning to think of as one of his characteristic Mmms. She liked that he was confident enough to listen while someone else was talking, and to spend a moment deliberating before responding.

“It sounds promising,” Brandon said, raking back a few strands of hair that had drifted forward onto his forehead. “Let me tell you a bit about how I think it could work.”

He guided them through the many promises of Dendrite’s AI, which the company called Nerio, named for the Roman goddess of valor: better real-time decision-making, more accurate target acquisition, reduced collateral damage. He’d probably delivered the talk dozens of times, but he made it feel fresh and genuine. He had a nice voice, Valeria noticed—deep, with a touch of gravel, and sonorous. It was weird, she could be sensitive to low-talkers and up-talkers, but she didn’t usually notice voices that were just . . . pleasing.

“But here’s the thing,” Brandon said. “We’ve made more runs at the Air Force than I can count. The Navy, too—they’ve got their own NGAD program. But the bureaucratic resistance is formidable. I mean, pilots . . .”

He glanced at Valeria, then continued. “Pilots are some of the cockiest bastards in the entire military. If you think Navy SEALs have a swagger, you haven’t met a pilot. So telling the Air Force you have a technology that’s going to render pilots obsolete . . . you might as well be offering to geld them. And the Navy’s not much better.”

Valeria realized he’d glanced at her as a kind of gut-check before offering up a couple of minor profanities. It was so gentlemanly it was almost endearing. And she liked that he was taking care to look at her at least as much as at Dunne and Preston, even though Dunne had been doing most of the talking.

“You didn’t have the right partner,” Dunne said. “Now you do.”

Brandon nodded, more as though pondering something than in agreement. “I can see what might be in it for Dendrite,” he said after a moment. He looked at Valeria. “Congresswoman-elect, may I ask what’s in it for you?”

Valeria decided to take a page from Cranston. “Why don’t you call me Valeria?” she said. “This Congresswoman stuff is going to go to my head.”

Brandon laughed. “Valeria, then. And apologies for my bluntness.”

Valeria smiled. “You’re a former SEAL. You’re supposed to be blunt. And to have a swagger.”

Brandon laughed again. Preston shifted in his chair. He’d barely said a word since they arrived. Was it just discomfort with the fact of the meeting? Or was he jealous at the rapport she was trying to establish with Brandon?

“The main thing,” she said, “is that I don’t want to see thousands of my constituents put out of work.”

“That makes two of us,” Dunne said.

Brandon kept his focus on her. “Apologies again, but how does something like this jibe with some of your campaign rhetoric? ‘Stop stuffing the maw of the military machine.’ That kind of thing.”

“I’m not a pacifist,” Valeria said. “I’m not against all defense spending. But I am against waste. Specifically, I’m against the government having invested billions of taxpayer dollars in a plane that turns out not to fly.”

The younger Chen must have been picking up on something, too, because he looked at Preston and said, “Preston, do you not agree?”

Preston shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s . . . frankly, Nick, AI makes me uncomfortable.”

Nick nodded. “I get it. It makes a lot of people uncomfortable.”

“Here’s why,” Preston said. “I know for the moment we’re only talking about target acquisition, things like that. Helping humans make better decisions.”

Nick nodded again. “Yes.”

“But humans are inefficient,” Preston went on. “And we’re a fully evolved technology. We’re not getting better, at least not until someone starts augmenting our brains with microchips and our bodies with exoskeletons or whatever, which is probably coming but AI is here now. So what’s going to happen when some general decides, ‘You know something? The only thing keeping AI from its full potential is the human in the kill chain. If we could just remove that inefficiency, the AI could really spread its wings.’ And when anyone protests, you know what the response will be?”

“‘The Chinese are already doing it,’” Brandon said. “‘We have no choice.’”

Preston sat back in his chair. “Exactly.”

Dunne said, “The Chinese are already doing it.”

“You see?” Preston said. “That’s my point.”

Brandon looked at Dunne. “You’ve seen that intel?”

Dunne shrugged. “I can neither confirm nor deny, but I expect that if such intel were to leak, it would be a powerful motivator for the Air Force and Navy to back incorporating Nerio into their NGAD programs.”

“Yeah,” Preston said. “We could even call the intel the Bomber Gap. Oh wait, that’s already been used, that was Eisenhower. Okay, maybe the Missile Gap. Oh wait, no, that’s been used, too, that was Kennedy. Maybe then . . . Window of Vulnerability? Nope, nope, that’s been used, too, that was Reagan. Well, we’ll come up with something. And whatever that intel is, assuming it exists at all, however real or phony, we can all be sure it absolutely will leak. Because if there’s one thing that never fails, it’s the president scaring the hell out of the country so people will acquiesce to the government borrowing more trillions to divert to the military. Sorry, to ‘defense.’”

The room was quiet for a moment. Valeria didn’t disagree with any of Preston’s points, but how was the diatribe going to help them? She wondered if maybe she was saying too little, if she should exert some control over Preston, who after all was her subordinate now. But no, maybe it was better to let him speak his mind while she kept her counsel, and her flexibility. Brandon’s stillness came across as confident; why wouldn’t hers?

Brandon broke the silence, turning to Valeria and saying in a faux Mexican accent, “You are an excellent tactician, Captain. You let your second-in-command attack, while you sit and watch for weakness.”

Valeria laughed, surprised and delighted. “You have a tendency to express ideas in military terms, Brandon. But this is a social occasion.”

They both cracked up. So did Nick. Dunne looked confused. Preston frowned.

“Star Trek,” Brandon said, still laughing. “TOS. The original series. ‘Space Seed.’”

“I used to watch it with my dad,” Valeria said. “He had the whole series on DVD boxed set. Captain Kirk was my first big crush. But Ricardo Montalban as Khan . . . he was okay, too.”

They laughed again. She had to admit, she liked that Brandon had interpreted her silence as tactical. Beyond which, the moment of levity felt like something she could take advantage of.

“Look,” she said. “I’m not watching for weakness. And Preston isn’t attacking. We’re just trying to understand the program—how it could work for America, and for humanity. And how it could hurt. I don’t want to fight for this program only to learn it’s actually HAL from 2001 or something like that. I want to understand going in—how promising is the Dendrite technology, and how safe.”

Preston was still frowning. “It won’t be safe for anyone on the other end of it.”

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “Weapons are funny that way.”

“I don’t think they’re funny at all,” Preston said. “But you know what I do think? I think by the time we’re pitching this to the Pentagon, it’s not going to be about how AI offers better real-time decision-making, and more accurate target acquisition, and reduced collateral damage. I think it’s going to be all about how the speed and accuracy of AI decision-making can put bullets and bombs more precisely on target and thereby achieve even more death and destruction than human-controlled weapons but with lower yields and smaller blast radiuses and less powerful shockwaves. You know, less sugar, fewer calories, but tastes better than ever.”

Valeria had never seen Preston like this. He was passionate about politics, of course, that wasn’t new. But this was different. It was as though he was trying to, what, bait Brandon? Provoke him? Best him in some way?

Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to work. Brandon took one of his characteristically long pauses before saying, “I think you might fundamentally misunderstand Dendrite’s mission.”

“I understand it all too well. And however you might understand it, the people who are ultimately going to exploit it will have their own understanding.”

There was another pause while Brandon looked at Preston. For the first time, Valeria sensed an air of . . . danger about him. And then she realized what it was. They were arguing, but Brandon wasn’t even blinking. Preston certainly was, and she had a feeling that if she measured both their heartbeats, Preston’s would be racing, while Brandon’s might actually have slowed down.

Brandon offered one of his confirming my thoughts, not agreeing with your words nods and an accompanying Mmm. “Have you ever served in the military, Preston?”

“I get that all the time. The answer is no. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion about the trillion a year the government diverts to the military.”

“I followed your campaign,” Brandon said. “I thought it was fair—and creative—when you would refer not to spending on defense, but diverting to the Pentagon. It doesn’t bother me.” He glanced at Valeria. “Though I appreciate that today you’ve been using the more traditional terminology.”

He looked at Preston again. “The reason I appreciate it is that it’s important to know your audience. To speak their language. If you use your preferred language and your audience is military, they won’t take you seriously. They won’t buy what you’re selling, whether it’s AI or spending cuts or whatever. They’ll think you’re hostile—to their mission, and to their values. And the truth is, they might have a point. Because if you think that any American who’s ever seen combat doesn’t care about reducing civilian casualties, I’d respectfully suggest that you might want to spend a little more time with people like me, who sometimes can’t sleep because they can’t stop remembering some of the innocent lives they took without meaning or wanting to, lives that might have been saved if our existing weapons could have been deployed more intelligently, more accurately, more responsively. People like me who made the best decisions we could under the worst possible circumstances, who would give almost anything to be able to do it over but can’t, and so who maybe are trying to pay their pain forward, by protecting future American warfighters from the sleepless nights they themselves will be plagued by for the rest of their lives.”

“I respect all that,” Preston said, so quickly it seemed he hadn’t heard, or else was trying not to show that a blow had landed. “But I want to know something.” He looked at Dunne. “You briefed them, didn’t you? On how to make this Nerio technology sound maximally safe and appealing to Valeria and me.”

Dunne shrugged. “Of course I did. You might have mauled me in the election, but I’m not an idiot.”

Preston looked at Valeria. “This is bullshit. We’re getting played.”

Valeria was frustrated. Preston was so smart, but his emotions were making him stupid. She shared his sense that Dunne wasn’t fully dealing them in. But how would complaining about it in real time improve their position? Sure, they were being played, and they could still play back. But not if they showed their hand.

And worse, he was putting her in an untenable position. Either she could shut him down, showing the other side there was a fracture in her team, or she could follow his lead, which would make her look weak and also impede their chances of finding a win here.

Just call a break. It won’t reveal your thinking, it’ll make it look like you’re above the fray, and it’ll give you a chance to shake some sense into him.

She was about to do it when the door opened. She could tell instantly who it was: Ryan, the middle brother, a taller, thinner version of Brandon.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said. “And sorry we haven’t had a chance to meet. I’m Ryan. Brandon and Nick, could I borrow you guys for a few?”

The Chen brothers stepped out, closing the door behind them. Immediately Preston looked at Dunne. “Look, Congressman, respectfully—”

“I understand,” Dunne said. “I put this meeting together hurriedly and didn’t coordinate the way I should have. I apologize for that.” While he spoke he gestured subtly toward the ceiling lights, then tapped his ear. Valeria got it: Assume we’re being listened to.

Preston got it, too. He nodded and said, “Nah, my bad for being cranky. The last month has been . . . not a lot of sleep.”

They all used the downtime for bathroom breaks, and made harmless small talk when they were back. After ten minutes, Brandon came in alone.

He sat and looked at them, then shook his head and laughed ruefully. “I’m afraid you might have come all the way out here for nothing.”

Valeria kept a poker face. “What’s going on?”

“Lance Thaddeus,” Brandon said. “He strikes again. This time, at Dendrite.”

Valeria was confused. Thaddeus was a hacker, famous—or infamous, depending on your perspective—for exposing the secrets of some of the world’s most powerful people and organizations. Half prankster, half anarchist, his only guiding principle seemed to be a hatred of hypocrisy and corruption, and his exposés had enraged royalty, heads of state, intelligence chiefs, and their banker and lawyer collaborators. On some level, Valeria couldn’t help a sneaking admiration, though because the establishment had been so successful in demonizing Thaddeus, she kept her ambivalence to herself.

“Why Dendrite?” she said. “Doesn’t Thaddeus usually go after the government and high-profile individuals? I mean, as opposed to corporations.”

Brandon waved a hand dismissively. “He’s a Luddite. A high-tech Unabomber. He hates the military. I don’t know.”

Dunne said, “Can you give us some idea of the nature of the breach?”

“Internal testing data,” Brandon said. “It’s technical, but the gist is, in our simulations, Nerio engages in an unacceptable rate of friendly-fire casualties.”

“What kind of rate?” Preston said.

“Ten percent.”

“Ten percent?” Preston said. “You mean that every time Nerio kills nine of the enemy, it kills an American, too?”

“In simulations.”

Preston laughed harshly. “What’s that line from Dr. Strangelove? Mr. President, I’m not saying we wouldn’t get our hair mussed. But I do say no more than ten to twenty million killed, tops.”

Valeria had to give Brandon credit for keeping his cool. The company he founded had just suffered a significant setback, and someone Brandon probably thought of as an overeducated, out-of-touch liberal elitist was using the occasion to mock him.

“We’re still in the R&D stage,” Brandon said. “No one’s suggesting that anything with a ten percent friendly casualty rate should be deployed, nor would anyone suggest that, ever. But I’m not giving away any secrets here in telling you that one, we’re going to be in damage control mode from this, and two, the Air Force and Navy will absolutely use the hacked data to resist any move from human-piloted planes to AI. I told you, this partnership we’re discussing is promising, but I don’t want to bullshit you. This is not good news.”

Valeria couldn’t disagree. She was surprised at the depth of her disappointment. She must not have realized how much she was counting on this option until it was suddenly taken away.

“If I may,” Dunne said. “How did you learn about the breach?”

Brandon blew out a breath. “We’re getting calls from reporters, asking us to confirm the authenticity of the data.”

“Isn’t that how Thaddeus operates?” Valeria said. “Uploads to everyone. The New York Times. Die Zeit. The International Consortium of Investigative Journalists. Teen Vogue. They all know everyone else has it, so if they want a scoop, they have to move fast.”

Brandon nodded. “Which typically means publishing more instead of less, and worrying about harm minimization later.”

“I get that,” Dunne said. “But . . . Thaddeus’s stunts usually involve information about multiple parties, don’t they? I mean, with the oligarch dump, it wasn’t just offshore accounts for Pierre Omidyar, but also the Koch brothers, George Soros, the Duke of Westminster, and a bunch of other billionaires, too, isn’t that right?”

Valeria wasn’t sure what Dunne was getting at. Even if Thaddeus’s latest stunt involved other AI companies, how would that matter to Dendrite, or to any of them? From what Brandon had said, it would just give the Pentagon even more reasons to resist replacing human pilots with AI.

“I don’t know much about Thaddeus,” Brandon said. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing but a bottom-feeding vandalizing scumbag.”

Dunne waved a hand impatiently. “Did any of the reporters who’ve been calling give any indication of whether this breach was specific to Dendrite?”

Brandon pulled out a phone. “Let me check.”

A minute later, Ryan was back in the conference room. Dunne repeated his question.

“Now that you mention it,” Ryan said, “they were asking about our data, but they all kept referring to the friendly-fire shortcomings of military AI generally, not just Nerio. Like our data was only one example of what they had.”

“But they didn’t say specifically?” Brandon said.

“No,” Ryan said. “But on the other hand, I wouldn’t have expected them to.”

Brandon looked at Dunne. “Either way, what difference does it make? This is a setback for us no matter what.”

“Maybe,” Dunne said. “But . . . do you guys have any intel about your competitors’ ability to distinguish friendly forces from hostile? How their AI compares to Dendrite’s?”

Ryan glanced at Brandon. Brandon nodded.

Ryan said, “We still have a ways to go. But according to our sources . . . we’re best in class.”

Dunne nodded. “It sounds like you and all your competitors are about to take the same hit. But Dendrite is in a stronger position. So maybe you were damaged, but your enemies were destroyed. On balance, how is this not a win for you?”

They were all quiet for a moment. Then Brandon smiled and looked at Valeria. “Looks like I’m not the only one with a tendency to express ideas in military terms.”

Valeria returned the smile. “Like Fillian said. You didn’t have the right partner. Now you do.”

CHAPTER 9

Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.

—Mark Twain

Valeria had resisted the idea, but she and Preston spent the night at Preston’s parents’ house in Woodside, a half-hour drive from Dendrite. Valeria had met Bill and Kim Jante twice before, when they were visiting Preston in Los Angeles. She didn’t dislike them, exactly; it was more a coolness in their manner that made her uncomfortable, a reserve she sensed wasn’t intrinsic to them but rather exclusive to her.

Her general unease increased as the rideshare left the highway and entered Woodside. The town wasn’t ugly or threatening—on the contrary, it was enviably bucolic in the late afternoon sunlight, thick with old-growth trees, rolling grassy hills big enough to be pastures, and driveways snaking away behind wooden gates to houses so far away you couldn’t even see them. There were tennis courts, and bicyclists, and more Horse Crossing than stop signs. It was almost too beautiful, and she thought of that line from countless cowboy and war movies: Awful quiet out there, Bob. Yeah . . . a little too quiet . . .

Along the way, she tried to think of how to get Preston to understand that it was amateurish and counterproductive to be overtly hostile to people they needed to work with. But she couldn’t come up with a good approach. She wondered whether maybe it was Woodside itself that was making her feel shy.

As soon as Valeria saw the Jantes’ house, it struck her as a microcosm of the town itself—a sprawling place with a wraparound porch, surrounded by at least an acre of manicured lawn and immaculately maintained plantings. Prominent in one of the first-floor windows was a Black Lives Matter sign, which was almost funny in a town that felt so relentlessly white, but which tracked with what Valeria had picked up about the Jantes’ politics during their visits to L.A. They weren’t bad people, just clueless and performative, the type who could simultaneously mouth slogans like Housing is a human right while “protecting the character” of their own neighborhoods by voting to zone exclusively for single-family homes.

The Jantes greeted them at the front door—hugs for Preston, handshakes and shoulder claps and Congratulations, Congresswoman! to Valeria—and ushered them in. There were several pairs of shoes and sneakers on the marble floor of the foyer, and the Jantes were wearing slippers. Preston stooped and started undoing his laces, and Valeria realized these people didn’t wear shoes inside the house. She kicked off her flats, glad to have spotted the clues before committing a faux pas. Beyond the foyer was an enormous living room bathed in natural light and furnished with oriental rugs and plush-looking leather furniture, the space replete with art and antiques doubtless acquired on first-class trips throughout Europe and Asia. The décor and atmosphere were obviously the work of years, and Valeria imagined that to these people it must have seemed a warm and inviting place. But to her it felt more like a lair.

Kim showed Valeria to a spacious guestroom with a king bed and its own bathroom. Preston had taken his bag to the room he’d grown up in. Valeria was confused—surely the Jantes understood that she and Preston would be sleeping together? Or maybe they didn’t understand, and it was a Don’t ask, don’t tell situation, which seemed a little silly. But whatever. She took a steaming hot shower, enjoying the moment of solitude as well as the water pressure, which was so generous it was almost a shiatsu massage.

And then it was time for drinks. Bill made a show of preparing everyone an old fashioned, explaining why it was important to saturate the sugar cube with bitters before adding the ice and whiskey, his preference being a Hillrock Sauternes-finish bourbon rather than rye. Valeria approved of the Hillrock, but did the guy really think she needed the tutorial? In addition to the parttime gig in college, she’d been tending bar six nights a week for the last four years at Dennis’s restaurants, both high-end places with an enthusiast clientele. They made their own clear ice and used a single sphere of it in their drinks, not a bunch of oblong freezer cubes that were still cloudy and misshapen no matter how expensive the Sub-Zero refrigerator that produced them. And the bar didn’t use white sugar cubes, either, but rather a house-made syrup crafted with demerara sugar and real vanilla beans. By the time Bill was done with the show, though, Valeria didn’t care how the drinks looked or tasted. She just wanted the alcohol.

And thank God for it, too, because next up was Kim, who offered a toast to Valeria’s victory that was really just an opening for a litany of PR advice. And okay, it was true the woman had enjoyed a long career in marketing with Apple and then Google before retiring to join local boards and to chair charity luncheons, but seriously not one question or even comment about how Valeria had gone from being an unknown bartender to dethroning a ten-term congressional incumbent everyone was expecting to be the next Speaker of the House?

They did manage to ooh and aah a bit about her being set to appear on Brite Night, the biggest of the network late-night talk shows. But even amid the ostensible congratulations, they focused mostly on the fact that she’d been to New York only once before, and were a little too generous with their suggestions about the best museums to visit and shows to take in. As though she was going to have time for any of that.

She supposed it was possible they were trying to impress her, not talk down to her. But it didn’t feel that way.

And then there were some bromides about racism, and how belated progress was being made, and how this was good. She knew Preston was dying inside, and wished she could tell him it was fine, she was used to this kind of thing from well-intentioned white liberals. Probably Preston’s parents dealt with minorities on an equal footing so infrequently that the encounters provoked anxiety, and tapped into a fear of being perceived as racist so nerve-racking that its sufferers overcorrected by offering bona fides no one had asked for, or wanted.

The one thing that did bother her was how they subtly belittled the universal basic income.

“It’s all well and good,” Bill said, giving his glass a shake that caused the cloudy ice to rattle. “But who’s going to work if they don’t have to?”

Bill had been a partner at a powerhouse Silicon Valley law firm, Sullivan, Priest & Savage, though he was now semi-retired. He was obviously bright, so how could he think his question was in any way insightful or useful?

She gave him a politician’s smile. “All those cases you won at Sullivan, Priest, Bill . . . you mean you only did it for the money?”

He looked a little taken aback. Blame your son, she thought. He’s the one always telling me to counterpunch. Not that she needed the encouragement.

“Well,” he said. “Lawyers might be a different case.” He glanced at Kim. “And marketing executives.”

“Not that you and Mom aren’t special,” Preston said, obviously trying to keep it light. “But overall, aren’t we all more alike than we are different?”

Kim smiled, the expression half pleasure at her son’s precociousness, half exasperation with how much he still had to learn. “I’m not sure about that,” she said.

“Think of it this way,” Valeria said. “Not many Americans work just hard enough to be under a roof in case it rains, or to buy only enough food to not go hungry. People want more than that, and even if they have those basics, they’ll try for more. Start a small business. Take classes so they can get a better job. College for their kids. Isn’t that part of the beauty of our capitalist system, that it provides all these rewards as incentives? America offers so many carrots—more than any other country in the world. Isn’t that what makes us great? Why would we also need a stick?”

That was another of Preston’s insights. Capitalism is the American religion. Don’t let them turn you into a heretic. Learn the liturgy. And use it against them.

Kim frowned, and Valeria imagined the woman thinking, This is what’s radicalized my son, isn’t it?

Actually Kim, what radicalized Preston was half attraction to me, half reaction to you.

“It all sounds a bit utopian,” Bill said. “I mean, you really think people will pick up the garbage or flip burgers or paint houses if they don’t have to?”

Valeria was trying not to get irritated. “Isn’t there a word to describe a system where people work because they’re forced to?”

“Come on,” Kim said. “You’re going to characterize all work as slavery? That’s like those feminists who wanted to characterize all sex as rape.”

Valeria thought of Brandon, and how confident he seemed when he paused before responding. It was a habit she needed to cultivate for herself.

Preston laughed, still trying to keep it light. “Come on, Mom. All a UBI is intended to do is create a floor no one can fall through. And to make employers attract workers with desirable wages and conditions, rather than relying on fear and desperation.”

“Costs that will be passed through to consumers,” Kim said, as though such a thing would upset the moral foundation of the universe.

“Don’t businesses ultimately pass all their costs to consumers?” Valeria said. “Unless those costs are being subsidized by the government, which in other contexts we’d call interference in the free market or even—gasp—socialism.”

No one responded. Valeria thought, Shit, am I being argumentative? Maybe she was. And maybe it was rude, because after all, she was their guest. But on the other hand, they were the ones who wanted the visit. Valeria would have been happier to stay at a hotel.

Kim drained her glass. “All right. I remember arguing with my parents. They were sure they were right about Nixon and Vietnam. But they weren’t. I hope Bill and I are wrong, too.”

It was such a gracious way to smooth things over it made Valeria feel guilty. She didn’t want to be uncharitable. But they just seemed so . . . typical. The BLM sign, the performative focus on race . . . it wasn’t because of ignorance of class issues. It was to deny the very existence of class, to prevent class from being addressed in the first place. She doubted any of it was conscious. But that didn’t make it any less pernicious.

And it wasn’t just political for her, either. She doubted these people had any particular problem with their son dating a Latina. Even marrying one. A brown daughter-in-law and mixed grandkids might even give them some cred at the country club. Their coolness, their suspicion . . . it was driven more by fear that people like Valeria wanted to take what they had. And they weren’t completely wrong, either. She didn’t want their possessions—the house, the money, the status. But she did want to end the asymmetrical privilege that was like a doorknob for people like the Jantes, and a door lock to people like her.

She wanted for anyone to be able to get through that door. But if people were intent on keeping it shut, she was damn sure going to kick it open.

CHAPTER 10

The reason the liberal seeks to stop confrontation . . . is that his role, regardless of what he says, is really to maintain the status quo . . . when he seeks to talk about change, he always confronts the oppressed rather than the oppressor.

—Stokely Carmichael

For dinner, Kim served Moroccan chicken and couscous. They ate in the kitchen, which was nice. Valeria knew from innumerable fundraising visits that the kitchen was where people invited you in, while the dining room or living room was where they kept you out. Bill poured an insanely delicious wine called Abreu Madrona Ranch and they steered clear of politics, and it was actually fun to hear stories about Preston growing up, about the two older sisters who had doted on him, one a recently minted partner at a New York corporate law firm, the other completing a postdoctoral research fellowship at Harvard Medical School, something called the Rosen Lab which was apparently quite famous though Valeria hadn’t heard of it. Then it was strawberries with whipped cream for dessert, and a local late-harvest wine called Dolce so wonderful it induced Valeria to overcome her time-zone fatigue and mild drunkenness and enjoy a second glass.

They were finally winding down when she saw Brandon had texted: Matt’s open tomorrow morning. Breakfast at Buck’s in Woodside, 9:00?

Matt was Matt Helios—Silicon Valley billionaire, Midas-touch venture capitalist, and Dendrite’s earliest and biggest investor. Before they’d left Dendrite’s offices, Brandon told them he wanted to try to set up a meeting. Dunne had been enthusiastic. Preston . . . less so. They’d papered over the tension by acknowledging the meeting probably wouldn’t happen anyway.

She looked at Preston. “Brandon says Helios wants to meet for breakfast. Somewhere called Buck’s.”

Bill raised his eyebrows. “Matt Helios?”

Preston gave his father a perfunctory nod and looked at Valeria. “You sure you want to do this?”

Bill was eying Valeria with what seemed like newfound appreciation. “Sullivan, Priest has been trying to get work from Helios for years. You’d be crazy not to meet him.”

“Dad,” Preston said. “We’ve got this.”

Bill held up his hands. “Of course. Of course.”

“I don’t see any downside,” Valeria said. “Let’s reschedule the interviews and catch a later flight, okay?”

She had used the plural pronoun, but Preston understood that rescheduling was his job. So, apparently, did Kim, whose slightly pinched expression suggested she didn’t like her son having to play secretary, even to a new congresswoman-elect.

Bill, picking up on the tension, said, “Kim, why don’t we take care of the dishes and let these two figure out their next moves?”

Valeria thanked them for the delicious meal, and she and Preston headed out for a walk. The Jantes’ place was on a tree-lined side lane, devoid of streetlights and with the houses set far back. There was a new moon low in the sky, and once they reached the road all she could hear was the crunch of their footfalls and the plaintive songs of crickets calling to each other in the dark. A little too much to drink, she realized, and was glad for the cool night air.

“Listen,” Preston said. “I know you want to meet him. I get it. But can I just make the case for why we shouldn’t?”

The truth was, she didn’t want to hear it. “Could I stop you?”

“Yes, you probably could. But why would you want to?”

She could think of several reasons, but no good ones. “Go ahead.”

“Small-dollar donors are what put us where we are right now. Less than twenty percent of whom were even from your district. Your message resonated with people all over the country. Whose average age was twenty-four, and whose average contribution was thirty-seven dollars.”

She knew all this, and she knew where he was going. But he obviously needed to say it, so she waited.

“I know you wore out the soles of four pairs of shoes,” he went on. “Practically bloodied your knuckles knocking on doors. The social media game was strong. The messaging was strong.”

“You can take a bow for that one.”

“I’m not looking for accolades. Just trying to be real. We did a lot of things right, and we worked our asses off, and we got lucky, too. Lucky especially that Dunne didn’t take us seriously until it was too late. But the thing that fueled it all, that made it all possible, was that army of small donors. They got you elected, Valeria. And if you let them down? They will decamp and go home.”

All at once, her irritation boiled over. “God, Preston, do you think I don’t know this? Everyone knows it. The Pentagon knows it, it’s why two minutes after I won they moved to put five thousand of my constituents out of work. To make me eat all my campaign promises. To make sure I’m fucked if I do, and fucked if I don’t.”

“I get it, this is why we had the meeting with Dendrite. We’re looking for a way through this dilemma, or around it. But now it’s not just a meeting. It’s not just Dendrite. Why do you think Brandon Chen wants us to meet Helios? He’s trying to seduce you. Can’t you see? Val, you know this is a game.”

“Yes! I know it’s a game, what do you want me to do, Preston? Not play? How can I win if I don’t play?”

“I’m not saying don’t play the game, I’m saying don’t let them play you!”

“Of course they think they’re playing me, that’s part of the game!”

They walked in silence. She hadn’t wanted it to get heated. But it was just so fucking frustrating how blind he could be.

“We’ve talked about this,” he said after a moment. “How you have to be like Odysseus. Tie yourself to the mast. Because if you don’t, you’ll be like every other sailor who heard these siren songs. You’ll try to swim to them. And you’ll drown.”

“I don’t want to be tied to anything. I need to be able to move. Don’t you get it? If they win, you’ll be fine. But I’ll be the single-term congresswoman. The has-been. The one-hit wonder.”

“Come on, Val, we’re in the same boat—”

“We’re not, Preston. We’re really not. Or if we are, you have a life-preserver and I don’t have shit. Look at that house you grew up in—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have an insurance policy. It’s always there for you. And of course you don’t see it. That’s what privilege is.”

Even as the words came out, she regretted them. It was a harsh thing to say to someone like Preston. But it was true.

“I’ve never asked them for anything,” he said.

“You don’t have to ask. It’s just there, and you must know on some level that it’ll cushion your landing if you ever happen to fall. You know those early experiments with LSD and schizophrenia? Scientists thought, Wow, we can use this drug to induce schizophrenia-like symptoms, and that’ll help us understand the disease. But it didn’t help them understand anything. Because the essence of schizophrenia, what makes it so terrifying, is that its cause is unknown and the condition is forever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We might be in the same boat, but we’ll never be at the same risk. You can slum with me, but you’re not from a slum. You’ll always have this kind of place to go back to. I never will.”

He stopped walking. She stopped, too, and tried to see his face. But he had turned away.

“Preston . . . ,” she started. But she didn’t know what else to say.

He turned to her. She could see him now, faintly in the weak moonlight, but she couldn’t read his expression.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I was your campaign manager. Now I’m your chief of staff. If you want to have a meeting, we’ll have a meeting.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He nodded. “I am, too.”

CHAPTER 11

Of course, the United States is unique. And just as we have the world’s most advanced economy, military, and technology, we also have its most advanced oligarchy.

—Simon Johnson

They slept in separate rooms. Was it some kind of edict from his parents? Or was it Preston’s decision, because of their argument? But she’d been reluctant to ask. She didn’t want another fight. And besides, she was afraid of the answer.

She woke early, still on Washington time, and decided to wait before emerging so she could study up on the rules that governed congressional procedure. She’d once read a biography of Robert Moses, the man who built New York City and who became one of the most powerful unelected officials in history by mastering rules most people were too lazy to read. Preston was always encouraging her to let him do the research, and he had a point—she was the only one who could handle the interviews and fundraising appearances, while anyone could brief her on the rules or on anything else. Well, maybe one day she’d have to rely on other people to feed her position papers and talking points and all the rest. But she wasn’t ready for that level of outsourcing yet. How legislation was actually negotiated and voted on felt important, a topic about which she needed to learn the nuances. She didn’t trust someone else’s briefing for that, not even Preston’s.

She read about the House Parliamentarian, a nonpartisan appointee always present when votes were being cast who was responsible for enforcing the chamber’s rules of procedure. The current Parliamentarian was a guy named Jason Smithers, whose photo suggested he’d been in the position since the earth’s crust was cooling, and who had a reputation as an extreme stickler for stare decisis—the principle of precedent. Meaning that as far as Smithers was concerned, if Congress has done a thing a certain way before, it was bound to do it that way now. The man’s publications included a book called House Rules and Manual; a brochure called How Our Laws Are Made; the multi-volume Precedents; and a condensed compilation called House Practice. She guessed he wouldn’t be a hit on the D.C. cocktail party circuit, but Smithers sounded like someone worth knowing. On the assumption that none of his collected works was likely to be made into a major motion picture, she made a mental note to ask Preston to get hard copies of all of it.

Then there was the Sergeant-at-Arms, responsible for bringing the chamber to order and preventing altercations. That one sounded mostly symbolic—an altercation in Congress seemed about as likely as a gang battle on the shuffleboard court of a retirement community. But Valeria supposed if a couple of congresspeople started trying to smack each other with their walkers, someone had to be around to pull them apart.

And then there were the committees. The two most powerful, it seemed, were Ways and Means and Appropriations. Not surprisingly, those were the ones that had the biggest revolving door of aides to lobbyists, and lobbyists to aides. Armed Services was also desirable, but she didn’t need to do her own research to know that after the campaign she’d run, no one was going to let her near anything military.

The trick, she sensed, would be to try for a committee that was powerful and sought-after, but not an impossible reach for a freshman. Maybe the Rules Committee, which people called the traffic cop of Congress because among other things it determined the manner and speed with which bills were considered.

It was all tedious reading, but she doubted many other newcomers would put themselves through it. Which made her even more determined to do so herself. There was a reason for the expression knowledge is power.

After showering, she found Preston at the kitchen table, wireless earpieces in place, laptop open in front of him. She looked around, smelling coffee, and he gestured to a drip brewer next to the sink. There was a mug on the counter next to it. No matter what, he was always thoughtful.

“Tomorrow won’t work,” he said. “Congresswoman-elect Velez is booked on Brite Night with Cliff Brite, she’ll be in New York.”

She grabbed his mug, topped it and filled her own, then brought both to the table and sat.

“Absolutely, if you want to tape it, we could be at Big Whig tonight at . . .” He glanced at Valeria, who scrunched her face into a theatrical mask of pain.

“Ten o’clock,” he continued, smiling as she stuck out her tongue at him. “That’ll work.” He entered something into the laptop.

Valeria took a sip of coffee. It tasted like heaven.

“Yes,” Preston said. “I’ll text if we’re running late. Thanks again.” He clicked off and pulled out the earpieces.

Valeria sighed. “Right after we land?”

“Or we could skip this morning’s meeting and catch the earlier flight.”

“Hah-hah.”

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry about last night.”

She squeezed back. “Me, too.”

“Have you seen the headlines this morning?”

His tone was neutral, in no way ominous, but still she felt a tendril of nervousness snaking out in her belly. “I haven’t even looked at my texts. Something I should know about?”

“Nothing bad.” He spun the laptop around so she could see the screen. “But I’ll tell you, our new friend Fillian moves fast.”

It was the Washington Post. The top headline read, TOP SECRET INTELLIGENCE ASSESSMENT REVEALS CHINA LEAPFROGGING U.S. ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE EFFORTS.

“Holy shit,” Valeria said.

She read the subhead. America has long enjoyed superiority in defense technology. The People’s Republic of China may finally have succeeded in ending it, officials say.

“I checked out the reporter,” Preston said. “Drew Sorren. For ten years he’s been running ‘Officials Say’ stories that track with Dunne positions. Laundering Dunne’s talking points into what people think is news.”

Could it really have been Dunne? She read on.

Drone swarms that could overwhelm ground troops. Artificial intelligence so sophisticated it could hack air-traffic control systems and electricity grids. AI-piloted fighter planes so fast and maneuverable they could reach any target. The dreams of America’s Defense Department are, for the Communist Chinese Government, increasingly a reality. Officials say an Artificial Intelligence Manhattan Project is needed immediately to close the AI Gap.

“Get to the part about the gap?” Preston said.

She nodded.

“Told you. Bomber Gap, Missile Gap . . . now it’s the AI Gap.”

She couldn’t believe it. The speed of it. And the brazenness.

He chuckled. “This whole story . . . it’s fiction. Dunne dreamed it up, fed it to a pet reporter who loves the access, and the reporter transcribed it with the officials say fig leaf as cover. It’s like if I wrote down something myself and then said, ‘No, it’s true, I read it somewhere.’ Because hey, in a way it is true, Dunne is an official, so an official actually did say this stuff, and ultimately that’s all this stenographer is reporting.”

“Yes, you’ve made that point before.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You don’t know it’s Dunne.”

“Val, you don’t want to know.”

“You seriously think he just . . . what, invented this? Made it up out of whole cloth?”

“I don’t believe Dunne has seen any intel, if that’s what you mean. But sure, what Dunne is pretending to know is real. Because of course the Chinese are doing this stuff. They’re doing it because we’re doing it. And we’re doing it because they’re doing it, and on and on and on. And not just for AI, but for chemical and biological weapons, satellite weapons, everything. It’s all real, because every great power uses the fact that other great powers are doing it as an excuse to do it themselves. So when any great power claims another is doing something nefarious, of course they’re correct. You don’t need intel to know this, any more than you need intel to know there’s fucking in the pornography industry—it’s what the industry is.”

They’d talked about this kind of thing many times—in the bar, in bed, over breakfast. She knew he was right. Why was it so irritating now?

“Which raises a question,” he went on. “What’s the point of this supposed intel?”

She already knew. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“It’s to make it sexy for the media,” he went on. “Because you know you can’t get a story covered by just telling a reporter, Hey, print this, after all, we both know it’s true. You have to present some sort of ‘evidence,’ and the sexiest evidence is ‘leaked’ Top Secret evidence that isn’t leaked at all, it’s planted.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

She had hoped he’d take her yeah as capitulation. But he laughed and said, “You know what just occurred to me?”

She didn’t answer.

“It’s like those ads for erectile dysfunction drugs, the ones with the ‘warning’ labels that say, If your erection persists for more than four hours, contact your physician. That’s not a warning, it’s a sales pitch! Because if they said, Check it, our drug will give you a four-hour hard-on, no one would believe it. But framing it as a ‘warning’? Goes right past people’s defenses. Same thing here. You frame it as an illicit leak, not as deliberate propaganda, and people swallow it without even chewing. It’s actually genius, there’s a lot we could learn from our new friend.”

That was the second time he’d called Fillian our new friend. The first time she wasn’t sure. The second definitely felt sarcastic. But she didn’t want to take the bait.

She sipped her coffee. “Why don’t we just ask Fillian if he planted the story? We’re going to see him in just a little while.”

“We could. Though I guarantee the response will be a non-denial denial. If he’s feeling particularly generous, maybe he’ll give us a Cheshire grin.”

“Why do you dislike him so much?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t trust him,” he said. “And I don’t trust Brandon, either. And I’m concerned because you seem to trust them both.”

“I don’t.”

“Really? You and Brandon seemed to have a nice connection.”

She laughed. “Are you jealous?”

He shrugged as though the notion was ridiculous. Which of course it was. So what was his point?

He worked the trackpad for a moment, then spun the laptop around so she could see the screen. It was her Facebook page.

“Finally catching up on the friend requests,” he said. “They’re coming in as fast as I can accept them. This is going to be a huge complement to our fundraising.”

“Great,” she said. But she was still distracted by the jealousy thing.

“There are also a bazillion messages. Mostly congrats, maybe ten percent crazies, a few dozen marriage proposals.”

She laughed.

He turned the laptop back around and worked the trackpad again. “Anyway, a lot of strange messages, which is par for the course since you announced. But there’s one I thought you’d want to see. I should have spotted it earlier, but—”

“It’s fine. Everyone’s been overloaded, and no one more than you. We’ll hire someone to manage the social media.”

He spun the laptop toward her. “Carol Jenkins. Do you know her?”

Her stomach clenched. What the fuck?

Preston was watching her, his expression concerned. “Who is she?”

She looked at him. “The woman my father left our family for.”

She’d never told him the whole story. Just that when she was fifteen, her father had left them, then died of a heart attack when Valeria was in college. It was a horrible time and she didn’t like talking about it, or even remembering.

Preston waited a beat, then said, “She says she wants to see you.”

“Fuck that. Why?”

“Do you want to see her message?”

“No.”

“Want me to read it to you?”

“No. Go ahead.”

He looked at the laptop screen. “Valeria, your father would have been so proud of you today. Héctor talked about you constantly and never stopped following your progress. Apologies for the intrusion, but there’s something time sensitive I think you’ll want to know. It’s been a lot of years, I hope enough so that maybe we can finally meet.”

He looked up. “And there’s a phone number. That’s all.”

She stared at him, shaking her head. Meet Jenkins? Valeria had promised Josie—no, not a promise, more a sacred oath—that she would never, ever have anything whatsoever to do with that woman. And sure, over the years Valeria had come to understand that the promise was extracted not just out of rage against Jenkins but also as a way to use Valeria to punish her father, on which mission accomplished and what did it matter now anyway? But she doubted Josie would be attuned to such subtleties.

“I looked her up,” he said. “Did you know she was an executive at Lockheed?”

“That’s where they met.”

“The Palmdale plant?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would it be relevant?”

“Well, it’s in your district. It’s where the NGAD program is. Or was. Where we’re trying to get it back. You think this has anything to do with that?”

“How should I know, Pres?”

He didn’t answer, and she went on. “Is it going to be this way now? Everyone who ever wronged me is going to show up with a hand out, telling me how happy they are that I turned out okay?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think you turned out okay?”

She felt a surge of rage so strong she almost punched him. Then he smiled and she realized he was teasing.

She burst out laughing. “Jesus,” she said, shaking her head. “I feel like I need a shower.”

“So . . . no to her friend request?”

The rage swept back in like a cloudburst. He smiled again.

She retracted her mug as though in preparation to fling coffee at him. “You’re taking chances, you know that?”

He held up his hands and laughed. “Sorry. She didn’t send a friend request. Just the message. I’ll ignore it.”

She nodded.

“She’s not at Lockheed anymore,” he said. “She’s still in the weapons business, though.”

“Isn’t everybody?”

He chuckled. “Some kind of umbrella group. The Silicon Valley Defense Initiative. She’s the director. But she also has her own portfolio—defense AI.”

“Great. I hope her father’s proud of her. Whoever he is. Whoever she is.”

“I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“You never told me.”

“I don’t really like talking about it.”

“I’m picking up on that.”

She didn’t answer.

“Val,” he said. “I really am sorry. You know you can talk with me about anything. If you want to.”

What she wanted was to change the subject. “You really weren’t jealous about my ‘connection’ with Brandon?”

He looked at her. “Should I be?”

“No,” she said, realizing this was the opening she’d been looking for in the rideshare. “You should be professional. You know, when you called out Dunne at Dendrite for briefing them on what talking points would be most appealing, you put me in a shit position. Either against my judgment I have to take your side so we seem united, or I disagree with you and reveal a split. It was lucky Ryan came in and saved me from having to choose, but what was your upside?”

He looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, please, I don’t want another fait accompli, okay?”

He nodded, still looking down, and she realized she should have just accepted his apology. The rest was piling on, and probably no less petty than his stunt at the meeting. He’d been irritating her with his insistence about Dunne, and then there was this Carol Jenkins shit, and . . . instead of dealing with it all substantively, she’d tried to hurt him. And, it seemed, succeeded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shook his head. “No, you’re right, it was a chump move at the meeting.”

“Pres. You’re the best communications tactician I can imagine. The best partner. The best friend. I could never have done this if we hadn’t done it.”

He nodded. She couldn’t tell whether she’d managed to alleviate the sting of her fait accompli comment.

“We’re still getting used to it,” she said, taking his hand. “My being a congressperson, your being chief of staff instead of campaign manager. And all while, you know, with everything else we have between us. How could it not sometimes be weird?”

He squeezed her hand. She felt a little better.

“Helios,” she said. “Why do you think he wanted to meet at this restaurant?”

“You don’t know Buck’s?”

It was sometimes maddening, how little he understood what it was like putting herself through college.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I might have heard of it when I was at San Jose State. But for some reason, Woodside wasn’t on my radar.”

“It’s a Silicon Valley institution,” he said, seeming not to notice her irritation. “It’s so low-key you’d never know it, but a lot of deals get done there.”

She felt like he wasn’t really answering. “I mean, as opposed to his office. Surrounded by the trappings of his power and influence . . . wouldn’t that be more impressive?”

“Maybe he’s not trying to impress you.”

“What, then?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he’s trying to disarm you.”

CHAPTER 12

“Democracy” is now an investment opportunity for sale to the highest bidder.

—David Sirota

They arrived at Buck’s a half hour early and were surprised to find Dunne already there, reading something on his phone, a carry-on bag on the bench next to him. He waved when he saw them.

“Restaurant meetings,” he said, as they got seated across from him in the booth. “You don’t always get to eat. Figured I’d get a head start.”

Preston nodded at Dunne’s plate. “What are you having?”

Dunne chased what he was chewing with coffee. “Seasonal vegetable omelet, made just with the whites. Doctor’s orders, and more importantly, wife’s.”

Valeria realized how hungry she was. “It looks good. Except for the egg whites.”

She ordered the regular version. Preston went for the granola acai yogurt bowl. The waiter was pouring coffee before they’d even asked.

Preston peered at Dunne’s phone. “That the Post you’re reading?”

Dunne raised his eyebrows. “You recognize the font.”

“You must have seen the report,” Preston said. “The AI Gap.”

Dunne nodded. “Lucky timing. Thaddeus’s dump will be the big news tomorrow. Today’s reports will put it in context.”

“But will it even be news?” Preston said. “I mean, we learned this morning that America is falling behind on defense AI, and we need to spend a lot more to catch up. All Thaddeus’s leak will do is confirm that.”

Dunne must have known Preston was goading him, but he continued to play it straight. “It could work that way. We’ll see. But listen, there’s something else I wanted to talk about.”

He took another sip of coffee. “I know you two are uncomfortable about this meeting. I get it. But Valeria, you’re going to need a new class of donors. Helios could be the gateway to that.”

“Oh, we know,” Preston said.

“Respectfully,” Dunne said, “you do and you don’t. You do in that if we pull off the Dendrite pitch to the Pentagon and get the NGAD program back in Valeria’s district, a lot of the small donors who swooned over your campaign rhetoric are going to be angry. But you can finesse that. Valeria, it’s what you said, when you answered Brandon in the meeting about not being a pacifist and not wanting to waste tax dollars already invested.”

“Come on,” Preston said. “Sunk costs are always the excuse. Look at the Army’s Future Combat Systems. Thirty-two billion and nothing to show for it. All they did in the end was change the name to Brigade Combat Team Modernization, and the zombie staggers on. The Navy’s Littoral Combat Ships were such a shitshow sailors called them Little Crappy Ships, and now they’re building the second generation—”

“And here’s what you don’t know,” Dunne said. “About small money. Yeah, it’s out there, like gold dust in riverbeds, and I’ve never seen anyone pan for it as effectively as you two did. But now the election is over. And the thing about small money is, after elections, it always goes back to sleep.”

“We can wake it up,” Valeria said, but she wondered.

Dunne nodded. “Some of it. But what motivated most of your donors? Putting you in office. Now they’ve succeeded, and they can go back to whatever preoccupied them before they accomplished that mission. But big money never sleeps. It never loses interest. It’s never satisfied because it always wants more.”

“That’s a tautology,” Preston said.

“It’s also an axiom.”

Valeria wondered whether she should interject more. But again she thought of Brandon—how confident his silences felt, and how he had interpreted her own reticence as tactical. And wasn’t it true that for all those years when she’d been the quietest kid in class, she’d also been the best student?

“If we can pull off the Dendrite-NGAD partnership,” Dunne said, “you’ll save five thousand jobs in your district. That’ll prevent your automatic loss. But you’ll still have to fight. Will you be able to win?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Valeria said. She wanted the question to sound confident. But she knew Dunne was going to have a scary answer.

“Because the defense establishment will know your army of small donors has dispersed and demobilized. They have plenty of money of their own—every defense-industry Super PAC you’ve ever heard of. Where will they want to invest that money? In someone who’s been adversarial? Or in an Astroturf candidate they know dances to their tune?”

Preston laughed. “You want Valeria to take that money so the one dancing to the tune will be her.”

“That’s up to Valeria. But that money is going somewhere. If you want it to go to her opponent, that’s up to you.”

“Fillian,” Valeria said. “I like you. Honestly, I didn’t expect to, but I do.”

He smiled. “Why do I sense an imminent ‘however’?”

Valeria shook her head. “Not a ‘however.’ But why should I trust you?”

Preston looked at her. He must have been glad she’d asked, and she was afraid he’d interject.

“I have three sons,” Dunne said. “Maybe you remind me of the daughter I never had.”

It was a nice thing to say. And maybe it was even true. But it wasn’t the real truth. She waited for her silence to wear him down, willing Preston to keep quiet.

“And maybe you remind me of myself,” he went on. “When I started out. When I believed I could accomplish more.”

He sipped his coffee. “Look, I’m a good politician. I’ve got the killer instinct and the Irish gift of gab, and no one lasts twenty years in this swamp without being a good swimmer.” He looked at Preston. “And yes, I know swamp and swim don’t exactly work together, but it’s close enough for government work.”

Preston raised his hands as though in surrender.

Dunne looked at Valeria again. “But I’ve never seen anyone with your raw talent. You could argue that’s something I just need to tell myself after the beating you gave me—you know, there’s no disgrace to Sonny Liston losing to an up-and-coming Muhammad Ali. But—”

“And no disgrace to Trevor Berbick,” she said. “Tyson was even younger than Ali.”

Maybe she was being oversensitive, but she always suspected that when men broke out the sports references it was at least in part because they wanted to display knowledge they assumed was superior.

Dunne laughed, maybe in acknowledgment of the subtext. “You see?” he said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

He took another sip of coffee. “Anyway. I don’t think my admiration is a way of protecting myself. Or at least not primarily. I think it’s justified. You can do more than I’ve done. Maybe more than anyone’s done, at least in a long time. But talent won’t be enough for that. You need skill. You need realism.”

It was a nice speech. Valeria even felt touched. But she was afraid she was being played.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But Fillian, what you call realism, some people would call selling out.”

The words were familiar, but at the same time sounded strange to her. Weirdly . . . foreign.

“I don’t care what you call it. If you try to win every battle, you’ll win none. But if you want to win some battles, you need to decide which you’re willing to lose. I wasn’t as judicious as I should have been, and I regret it. If I can help you avoid those sorts of regrets, I’ll be glad.”

She nodded, reminding herself to take her time, that the pause would seem confident. She knew there was something in it for Dunne—the big win for his new client being the most obvious benefit—but that didn’t mean his expression of concern for her was insincere. Two motives could both be true.

Still, her mind served up an image of a snake and an apple.

CHAPTER 13

Endless money forms the sinews of war.

—Cicero

Valeria saw Brandon approaching, along with a big man with a bullet-shaped bald head and a friendly, open face. She recognized the man from news photos—Matt Helios. Brandon gave a small wave. Helios, seeing Valeria, broke into an irresistibly jovial smile.

The three of them stood for introductions and handshakes and then sat, Helios between Dunne and Brandon on one side of the booth, Valeria and Preston on the other.

Helios gave her the jovial smile again. “Congresswoman, thanks for taking the time this morning. I can only imagine how busy you must be.”

Valeria assumed a billionaire wouldn’t think anyone’s time was more important than his own, but still it was a polite thing to say. “Please,” she said. “Valeria. And thank you. I know you’re busy, too.”

“Absolutely,” Preston said, looking at Helios. “With your schedule, you must have had a good reason to take the time this morning.”

Helios turned the jovial smile on Preston, not looking the least bit discomfited. His self-possession reminded Valeria of Brandon during the meeting at Dendrite. But just because the taunts weren’t provoking anyone didn’t mean they were okay. There was something to be said for good cop, bad cop, or for letting your second-in-command attack. But it should have been deliberate, not because Preston was peeved and couldn’t control himself.

It's okay. You’ll talk to him.

“It’s okay to congratulate Valeria,” Dunne said, looking at Helios. “The election’s over, we’re all friends now.”

Helios laughed. “In that case, congratulations, Valeria. And to you, Preston. What do I know about these things, but I think you two ran a campaign for the ages.”

Valeria remembered an Italian expression she had come across somewhere: I pensieri stretti e il viso sciolto. Smile at everyone and keep your thoughts to yourself. Which immediately made her think of Lao Tzu: Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know. She really needed to talk to Preston. Instead of denigrating these people, he might learn from them.

The food arrived. Brandon and Helios had the waiter fill their coffee mugs, but that was all.

“Brandon,” Preston said. “Did you see the Washington Post this morning?”

Brandon nodded.

“Well,” Preston said. “I guess we do have the right partner now.”

Valeria glanced at him. Damn it, Pres, what is the point?

Dunne sipped his coffee, the picture of obliviousness.

“Everyone in the AI community is talking about the article,” Helios said. “The truth is, it’s good timing, because Thaddeus’s hack will be all over the news tomorrow.” He shook his head. “What’s that saying? Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

AI has its own community now, Valeria thought. Like the intelligence community. So friendly. But unlike Preston, she kept the sarcasm to herself.

Helios glanced at a big and expensive-looking watch. “Apologies, but it turns out I’m a bit pressed for time. Congresswoman—Valeria—in addition to hoping to congratulate you in person, I wanted to extend an offer, and to pass along some intel you might find useful.”

Valeria was surprised the meeting was going to be so short—and surprised too that the brevity felt mildly insulting. She imagined herself demanding, Do you know who I am?, and the ridiculousness of her newfound self-importance almost made her laugh.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Preston and I have to head to the airport anyway. I’m glad we got to meet.”

Helios nodded and looked at Dunne. “Fillian, my Pentagon connections are probably the subset of yours, and most of them I’ve already used trying to get the acquisition people to understand the promise of Nerio. I think with you and Daschle, Davis on the team, we’re finally going to start scoring some points. Whatever I can do, please say the word.”

“Your connections,” Dunne said. “Would a Colonel Aaron Walls be among them?”

Helios raised his eyebrows. “Air Force guy? Head of the DIA’s Counterproliferation Office? Little bit . . . Dr. Strangelove?”

Dunne nodded. “I think he prefers to be compared to Curtis LeMay, but yes, that’s him. He was just transferred—now he heads up DARPA’s Strategic Technology Office. I’m guessing you guys wouldn’t have reached out to him—he’s still mostly known as a military spook and for his obsession with nuclear deterrence and counterproliferation.”

“That’s right,” Helios said. “He wasn’t on our radar.”

Dunne smiled. “Here’s the thing. He’s a huge cheerleader for defense AI, convinced we’re losing the race to the Chinese.”

“You bet,” Preston said. “The AI Gap.”

Brandon looked at Valeria. “DARPA is—”

“The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.” Maybe she shouldn’t have cut him off, but she didn’t want anyone to think she needed DARPA explained to her.

Brandon dipped his head in acceptance of the rebuke.

“Walls and I worked together,” Dunne said. “When I was on the Select Committee on Intelligence, and he was just an up-and-coming Air Force lieutenant. And later, when he was with Counterproliferation. When I tell him about Dendrite’s AI, he’ll want to hear more. And then we can all start working our other Pentagon connections.”

“Outstanding,” Helios said. He looked at Valeria. “Before I run, that intel. Sting Magazine is going to run a hit piece. The gist is that you misled voters in claiming to have grown up in working-class Pacoima, and that you actually lived in upper-class Valencia, just up the highway.”

Valeria laughed. “We already dealt with all that, during the campaign. I would even call it Fillian’s main line of attack, including of course inexperience and naïveté.” She looked at Dunne. “No hard feelings.”

Dunne smiled. “Thanks. And none about the corporatist, militarist, bought-and-paid-for, either.”

They all laughed.

“Besides which,” Preston said, “it’s bullshit. Valeria was born in Pacoima and lived there until she was twelve.”

“I’ve barely been to Valencia since I graduated high school,” Valeria said. “Even my mother doesn’t live there anymore. She’s back in Pacoima. This is all a matter of public record. It was never news to begin with, and even if it was, it’s old news now.”

Dunne nodded. “The information is the same. But . . . is everything the same?”

Valeria felt a little knot in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Before, I was your opponent. Your supporters didn’t want to hear my attacks because they wanted you to win. But now you have won, you’re about to do something your supporters might not like, and Sting Magazine is understood to be a left-leaning publication. Maybe the leftish brand is deserved, maybe not, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the new context and the new source affects how the information is treated.”

The little knot in Valeria’s stomach twisted. She hated having to talk about the past. What did any of it have to do with who she was now and what she would fight for?

Preston looked at Helios. “Matt, do you know when this article is scheduled to run?”

“My understanding is it’ll be online later this week.”

“You wouldn’t want to share anything about how you came across this intel?”

Helios grimaced. “That I can’t do.”

Preston looked at Valeria. “They didn’t even call us for comment.”

She had a thought. It seemed far-fetched, but . . .

“You don’t think they’re going to feed it to Brite Night, do you? I mean, just because of the timing. My being on tomorrow.”

Preston blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t think so. I mean, Brite’s politics track with ours.” He turned to Helios. “Well, whatever they’re up to, appreciate the heads-up.”

“Glad I could help,” Helios said. He turned to Valeria. “Okay, I really am sorry to have to run so soon. But when you’re back, I’d like to host a gathering at my house in Atherton. There are a lot of people in the area excited about your win. They all want to get to know you better.”

Ah. And here I thought when you said you had something to offer, you were talking about helping with the Pentagon.

“I’m glad,” she said. “Hopefully they’re not unduly upset about my views on, say”—she smiled at Brandon—“defense spending reductions?”

Helios waved a hand. “Half of what gets shoveled into the Pentagon is wasted. Anyone interested in investing it more effectively will get a good hearing from the folks I know.”

Valeria was aware that he had just altered spending reductions to investing more effectively. But she saw no upside to calling it out. She hoped Preston would control himself.

Brandon looked at her. “I don’t have anything like Matt’s Rolodex. But I can tell you, there are plenty of former military people in tech startups who’d like to hear what you have to say.” He smiled. “We’re not all just about stuffing the maw.”

She returned the smile, liking that he wasn’t afraid to tease her. But her mind was on that Sting article.

CHAPTER 14

Behind the ostensible government sits enthroned an invisible government owing no allegiance and acknowledging no responsibility to the people.

—Theodore Roosevelt

“What did you think?” Dunne said, after Helios and Brandon were gone.

Valeria preferred Dunne to go first. “Why did Helios want this meeting?”

Dunne shrugged. “The primary reason seems pretty obvious. He’s got nearly a billion sunk into Dendrite. Even for Helios, that’s a big bet. If it plays out well, his winnings will be gargantuan. If it goes belly up—”

“Boo-hoo,” Preston said. “He’ll only have nine billion left.”

Damn it, Preston. They’d just talked about this. He’d apologized. And yet he couldn’t help the little jabs.

Dunne raised his eyebrows. “Do you really think someone like Helios doesn’t care what happens to a billion dollars because he has nine billion more?”

Preston didn’t respond, and Dunne continued. “If the Helios’s of the world were motivated by nothing more than money, they’d stop doing what they do long before hitting nine zeroes.”

“Oh,” Preston said. “So he’s not motivated by money?”

Dunne looked at him. “I didn’t say that. Are you deliberately misunderstanding me? Or is your appreciation of human nature really this simplistic?”

Valeria was getting increasingly agitated. Not because she felt she was saying little—she was beginning to see the advantages of that. But because she realized she really was going to have to pull rank on Preston, and she didn’t want it to be that way with them.

She looked at Dunne. “Agreed, the primary reason has to do with protecting his portfolio. Money that goes to legacy arms manufacturers doesn’t benefit him. So that money is being ‘shoveled.’ While ‘investing more effectively’ means shifting that money to Helios’s startups.”

Dunne nodded.

“But what about the intel?” she went on. “And the fundraiser?”

She felt bad just continuing the conversation as though Preston hadn’t said anything at all, but for the moment it felt like the kindest way to deal with his bullshit.

And who knows, it might even be effective, too.

Dunne glanced at Preston, then back to Valeria. “I’m guessing the intel is solid. I doubt Helios got to where he is trading in unreliable information. How he got hold of it I don’t know. Probably he had his people shake the trees to see if something you’d find helpful would fall out.”

She thought she could see it, but asked anyway. “Why?”

Preston shrugged. “He’s protecting his investment. And”—he glanced at Valeria—“maybe starting a new one.”

Dunne looked at him. “If you can’t help making too many barbed comments, son, they should at least be insightful and accurate. That one was.”

“Thank you,” Preston said.

Dunne smiled. “Nothing wrong with praise when it’s due.” He looked at Valeria again. “Anyway. The same goes for the fundraiser. Helios doesn’t want you to do him a favor. He’d much prefer to do the favor for you. That way you feel in his debt. Or at least you’ll recognize that he can do a lot for you—if you’re willing to do a lot for him.”

It all made sense. The part she was having trouble getting her head around was how the whole thing felt both murky and transparent. Because wasn’t Dunne doing what he was describing, not just in general but in real time, as a fractal of the whole dynamic? Acknowledging the truth of Preston’s point, even though Preston had meant it as a warning. And the candid explanation that followed. It felt like the truth, but wasn’t he offering it to her as a way of saying I can do a lot for you—if you’re willing to do a lot for me?

“It all tracks,” Valeria said. “Thank you.”

Dunne waved a hand as though it was nothing.

“This Colonel Walls,” Preston said. “He’s your next step?”

Valeria noticed the your instead of an our.

Dunne nodded. “But here’s the thing. A sale is an infection of enthusiasm. If the only person we infect is Walls, then we’re depending on him to infect the next decisionmaker, and then we’re depending on that person to infect the next one, and so on, with the initial enthusiasm getting more and more diluted with each transmission. Our best chance is to get the maximum number of decisionmakers in the room at the same time. So I’ll try to set a meeting with Walls, and then I’ll have my new partners work their Pentagon lists. I’m guessing Helios will be able to help, too. And if either of you happen to know anyone who can help get a few more of the right people in the room for that initial meeting, be ready to work those contacts. Especially anyone whose purview is AI.”

In her peripheral vision, Valeria saw Preston looking at her. She knew what he was thinking, but now wasn’t the time.

The waiter came over. “No hurry at all,” he said, smiling, “but the check’s taken care of. Mr. Helios insisted. Also he said to have a good flight. And, uh, Congresswoman Velez, I recognize you from the news. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Valeria said, realizing in the same instant that soon people recognizing her might become more a burden than a pleasure.

The waiter departed and Dunne laughed. “I’ve been in this game for twenty years and no one outside my own district or a reporter lurking at an entrance to the Rayburn Building ever recognized me. Valeria, it’s going to be a pleasure to watch your continued rise.”

Dunne left to head to the airport. Valeria watched as he made his way out of the restaurant. “He really doesn’t seem to have any hard feelings,” she said.

“Why would he? It’s working out great for him.”

She looked at him. Preston was far from dumb. And despite the impression he’d given Dunne, his understanding of human nature wasn’t the least bit simplistic. It was as though he was trying to be obtuse.

“Pres,” she said. “We don’t have to like these people. Or respect them, or trust them, or whatever. But if we see them as cartoons, how’s that going to help us get anything done?”

“I don’t see them as cartoons.”

“Come on. You think Dunne is happy he lost the election?”

“I think he might be relieved.”

“Sure, on some level. After twenty years, at least part of him was probably sick of it. He said as much. And yeah, he got a nice consolation prize. That’ll draw some of the sting of losing. But not all of it. People are more complicated than that. Give him some credit.”

He sighed. “He’s likeable, Val. Avuncular. Gracious in defeat. And funny, too, giving me a hard time about tautologies and axioms and swimming and swamps. I mean, they’re all likeable. Helios. Brandon and his brothers. And why wouldn’t they be? They’re getting what they want. But what happens when they don’t?”

“I don’t know, but if you keep gratuitously antagonizing them, we’ll probably find out.”

He nodded. “Point taken.”

Maybe she should have pressed harder. She knew she needed to, and the moment was as good as any other was likely to be. But her heart wasn’t in it.

“Speaking of giving them their due,” Preston said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not going to like this. But . . . Helios’s intel. That Sting hit piece. It’s about your past, right? Your childhood?”

She knew instantly where he was going. “No way. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Well, I don’t want to say it. Look, I hate to give him credit for it, but Dunne planting that story about the Chinese and AI in the Post was a genius move. At worst it’s going to neutralize the damage to Dendrite from Thaddeus’s hack. More likely, it’ll turn what would have been damage into an opportunity. We might be able to do something similar here. If we know in advance what’s going to be in that hit piece—”

“I said no way.”

“On top of which, if we’re going to have this Pentagon meeting anyway—”

“Jesus Christ, Pres, no means no.”

“Jenkins is the director of the Silicon Valley Defense Initiative. Her portfolio is AI. That’s exactly the kind of contact Dunne just asked us to work.”

She knew she was being petulant. Even spiteful. She didn’t care. She didn’t answer.

“I don’t get it, Val. I’m sorry, I don’t. I know it’s painful, but isn’t breaking bread with a guy like Helios painful, too? How many times have we said, ‘Every billionaire is a policy failure’? We didn’t meet him just to meet him, right? We did it to solve a problem. Obviously you feel the personal stuff more acutely, but ultimately isn’t the principle the same?”

Still she didn’t answer. Because as long as she didn’t answer, it wasn’t going to happen.

The silence spun out. Finally, she said, “You should have been a lawyer.”

“That’s what my father’s always saying. I hope I haven’t disappointed you, too.”

“If my mother ever hears I met this woman . . .”

He nodded. “Then let’s make sure she doesn’t.”

CHAPTER 15

I don’t think you look at Republicans and Democrats anymore. I think those labels are meaningless. The Morning Joe mindset is no different, really, than what the Murdochs think.

—Steve Bannon

Cranston was in the kitchen of his Logan Circle townhouse cooking dinner—one of his favorites, pasta Bolognese. Ground beef, pork, veal, and salt-cured pancetta, all tossed with penne rigate and freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Everything he made was one of his favorites—Bolognese, chicken piccata, moussaka with yogurt béchamel. His mother had been a wonderful cook. She’d always made his favorites, and taught him how to make them, too. Half the reason he’d bought this townhouse was the kitchen. It was small and galley-style, and though he could have lived in one of his fancier properties, a galley was what he was used to. It was comfortable, and reminded him of his mother. And of course the townhouse itself, less than a mile from the White House and K Street, was a sound investment. So were the other buildings he owned. Real estate made sense to him. It was right there in the nomenclature—real, meaning tangible, corporeal, concrete. Something you could touch, something you could live in. Stocks and bonds and even currencies had no intrinsic value. They were the product only of human whim, and human whims were, well, whimsical. Not that real estate was invulnerable, of course. Cities became more or less desirable, neighborhoods went in and out of fashion, even climate change was having an impact on values. But Washington was special. It was the seat of government, after all. And the government only grew.

His phone rang, cutting off his headphones from the book he was listening to: Why Buddhism is True. Cranston wasn’t a Buddhist, but he liked the author, Robert Wright, who he thought understood the humans quite well. He wished more humans would try to appreciate Wright’s notion of cognitive empathy, but it seemed part of human nature was resistance to the notion of understanding without condoning. Condemning was easier, and more enjoyable. Wright liked to frame his concept as something that would be good for all humanity, which of course it would be. But if he had pitched it instead as a version of Sun Tzu’s Know your enemy dictum, probably more humans would have bought the book. Humans cared more about winning than surviving.

He glanced at his phone and saw it was Fillian. He liked Fillian. Fillian made him feel comfortable. He tapped the answer call button on his headphones.

“Hi, Fillian.”

“Hi, Montie. Am I catching you at an okay time?”

“Yes. I’m just listening to a book. And making an early dinner. Pasta Bolognese. One of my favorites.”

“How do you stay so thin?”

“I’m not sure. Mostly I just stop eating when I’m not hungry anymore.”

Fillian laughed—a good-natured laugh, not a mean one. “So that’s the secret, huh?”

He could tell Fillian was joking, even though he didn’t really understand jokes. “No, not a secret,” he said, trying to say something humorous back and knowing the effort was futile.

But Fillian laughed again anyway, which was nice. “Listen, I think Valeria is about to run into some headwinds. She knows it’s coming, which is good, but she might benefit if you helped her game out the dynamics. And if you could share some thoughts about how to manage it.”

“Headwinds is a good metaphor. But to be consistent, you should probably avoid gaming and dynamics in favor of trimming her sails or tacking. Assuming you intended a nautical reference. Aircraft and land vehicles would suggest something different.”

That produced another nice laugh. “You know, someone else recently advised that I should stop mixing my metaphors. I’ll have to work on that.”

“What are the headwinds?”

“It looks like Sting Magazine is putting together a hit piece. The timing is strange, though. The election is over, so why now?”

“Well, she has that Brite Night appearance tomorrow.”

“I had the same thought. That maybe Sting is going to feed something derogatory to Brite Night. Or that Brite will use something else to ambush Valeria, maybe something about her background that could hurt coming from him even though it was ineffective coming from me. But why? Brite’s audience . . . I mean, most of those people, if they lived in California’s 27th, they might have voted for Valeria. Not a great venue for an ambush.

“When you’re planning an ambush, don’t you want to spring it where your enemy least expects it?”

Fillian laughed. “Well, when you put it that way. But still, Brite’s audience and Valeria . . . they’re not really adversarial.”

“On the surface? Or down deep?”

“How do you mean?”

“For corporate media, politics is a tree. Don’t let it distract you from the forest.”

“What’s the forest?”

“It’s so obvious, Fillian, it’s interesting that you don’t see it. I’m using your name here because I’m concerned my words will sound harsh and I want to reassure you.”

Fillian laughed again. “You know I always appreciate that.”

“And to be fair, you might not see it because it’s too obvious. Like gravity. It’s just there. All the time. And invisible, except by its effects. So even though it’s a powerful force, humans don’t really notice it. Here, the forest—the gravity—is of course money.”

“Ah.”

“Remember principles, parameters, and preferences?”

“I think I’ve heard you mention the concept, yes.”

“Ah, you’re using understatement. Facetiousness. For humor.”

“Trying to, anyway.”

“My point is that while corporate-owned media have political preferences, and might even have political parameters, their only principle is profit.”

“I don’t know, Montie. Most television shows are partisan. Fox on one side, MSNBC on the other.”

“I think it’s hard for you to see beyond these things because you’re human. And partly because you’ve been so deep inside it for so long. You focus on the teams, so you forget they’re playing the same game.”

“I suppose so. Still, Fox and MSNBC—”

“If either one detected more money to be made by switching to the other side, they would switch. They don’t switch only because they have partisan audiences they pander to.”

He could tell that Fillian, though in some ways quite sophisticated, was resisting.

“Or look at it this way,” Cranston said, thinking a more personal example might be more effective. “There are 535 members of Congress—about half on one team, half on the other. If you could guarantee any one of them that if he switched teams he would become president, would he switch?”

There was no response, and Cranston added, “Would you?”

Fillian laughed. Cranston could tell the laugh was uncomfortable. It made him feel a little bad. He tried not to make people uncomfortable.

“So,” he went on, “if you want to understand corporate media thinking, if you want to predict what they’ll do, don’t ask about politics. Ask about profit.”

There was a pause. Fillian said, “Why didn’t you tell me this before the election? Maybe I would have won.”

Cranston felt bad. “But I’ve explained these sorts of things to you many times.”

“Montie, I’m kidding. I know you have. And I always appreciate it. I lost because I didn’t take Valeria seriously. But there are people taking her seriously now. I think she could use your help.”

CHAPTER 16

Once weapons were manufactured to fight wars. Now wars are manufactured to sell weapons.

—Arundhati Roy

Valeria stared out the rideshare window, watching the streetlights come on and the storefronts go past, feeling angry and hurt and alone.

When she was fourteen, she had an impacted wisdom tooth that needed to be removed. She’d never had any kind of surgery before, and made the mistake of looking up the procedure on the Internet. The images were terrifying: metal instruments, flayed gums, white bone exposed under bleeding incisions. But Héctor had calmed her. They’d started a countdown together: This time next week, it’ll be done! This time in six days, it’ll be done! She’d used the trick many times since when facing something unpleasant, projecting her imagination ahead to a time when what was now the scary future would be the safe and settled past.

She stared through the window. Autozone. 7-Eleven. Chevron. Walgreens. Unending chain stores, as interchangeable as they were ugly. She wondered how many of the people in the cars around her realized this was a section of California’s 600-mile historic El Camino Real, established by the Spanish a quarter millennium earlier to connect their missions. But why would anyone know? There were a thousand streets in America just like it. Ten thousand.

Convenience was an important value, yes, but what about history? And beauty? What was the price of a culture consecrated to all this getting and spending?

She couldn’t give voice to these thoughts in public. She knew her enemies would turn it into an attack. Why do you hate America, Valeria? Why do you hate commerce? Aren’t we the greatest, richest country in the history of the world?

It made her crazy, how easily concern for Americans could be twisted into hatred of America. Preston was more pragmatic. This is the discourse, he would say. Hofstadter wrote about it in the sixties in The Paranoid Style in American Politics. It’s never going to change. All we can do is learn the language—and use it better than they do.

She knew he’d been right about Jenkins. But she was angry anyway. Worse than angry. The way he’d equated meeting a venture capitalist with meeting that woman . . . she couldn’t deny the logic. But still it felt like a dirty trick.

It didn’t matter. An hour—less than an hour—and she’d be back at the hotel. Probably in the shower. She closed her eyes and could see it, almost feel it: low light from the bedroom; billows of steam; the water as hot as she could stand. She’d be recalling meeting Jenkins, not dreading it.

When she’d finally given in to Preston, it had been with conditions. “You call her,” she’d said.

“No, I think it should be from—”

“It should not be from me. It’s not important to me. But I’m important. I’m busy. I have an assistant who handles annoying little requests like this one.”

She’d only meant it as the impression she wanted to convey to Jenkins, not as a statement of fact. But from Preston’s expression, she didn’t know which way he took it.

Or maybe his expression had been concern at how petty she was being. It didn’t matter.

“Tell her I’m only in town until tonight,” she’d said. “So if she wants to meet, it’ll have to be today.”

Preston had called the woman. She could do it, but not before five thirty—a board meeting, some kind of venture startup. After that, anywhere that was convenient for Valeria.

Valeria had searched on her phone and found a place called Newell’s near the airport. But it turned out the only nonstop she could switch to that evening was full, and she didn’t want to take the redeye. Preston had suggested they stay at his parents’ house, but the hell with that. And the truth was, she didn’t want him around when she met Jenkins anyway. She’d convinced him to reschedule what needed to be rescheduled, to fly back to Washington as planned so he could continue to manage the transition from campaign to Congress, and to find the two of them a place to live, too. They would still meet in New York for the Brite Night appearance, but she’d fly there directly and he would take the Acela train from D.C.

So now she was checked in at the San Francisco Airport Marriott. Where less than sixty minutes from now, she’d be in the shower, getting clean.

The rideshare bore right off El Camino onto a local street. There were beauty salons, a few martial arts academies, and every kind of Asian eatery. Adjacent to one another and taller than the rest were branches of Bank of America and Citibank, two of the culprits who had decided the global economy was their private casino, and who after their wanton bets had blown up in their faces demanded a bailout courtesy of struggling taxpayers.

The power imbalance was massive. She didn’t know if it could be rectified. All she knew was that it never would be, if people didn’t try.

She had the car let her out across the street from Newell’s, then stood for a moment, looking at the place. It was in a corner two-story building, the bottom half a dark wood façade. Neon signs. The door open in invitation. Classic dive bar. The Santa Monica bar where she’d met Preston was higher-end and better paying, but cheap, no frills, and no bullshit would always be more her speed. She doubted Carol Jenkins, with her board meetings and venture cronies, would have been near a place like this in decades, if ever. But hey, a little time with the proles might do the woman good. She crossed the street and headed in.

She liked the inside immediately. Worn wooden floors, dim lighting, air redolent of beer. The bar was long and medium full, with a nice buzz of laughter and conversation. Joey Ramone’s cover of “What a Wonderful World” played from unseen speakers, and pool balls cracked from somewhere in back. She realized she should have considered whether the place would be noisy—she needed to hear Jenkins, but didn’t want to have to lean close to do it.

Valeria knew what the woman looked like, of course. As a teenager she’d spent plenty of time on the Internet, trying to understand who their father was leaving them for, and why. But it seemed Jenkins hadn’t arrived. That was fine. They’d said five thirty and it was only five fifteen. Valeria would have one beer, and if she was still alone at five forty-five, she would bounce. And Preston better not even think about giving her a hard time about it.

She ordered a Sierra Nevada, left a good tip for the woman who poured it, and grabbed a seat at one of the open tables in a side room. She’d enjoyed exactly one sip when a guy in a baseball cap and battered leather jacket rolled up to the table and held out his hand.

Valeria’s dive-bar reflexes must still have been stronger than her politician ones, because she resisted the urge to shake an outstretched hand. “Do we know each other?” she said.

The guy gave her a beer-sloppy grin. “We could. I’m Cheney. People call me Chain.”

The trick now was to turn it around, to make the guy justify himself. But you had to phrase things the right way. This guy looked harmless, but a more aggressive specimen might respond to Is there something I can do for you? by suggesting you come out back and blow him. No guarantees, of course, but you wanted to at least make the bullshit more difficult.

“How can I help, Cheney?”

He retracted his hand but maintained the grin. “You could let me buy you a beer.”

“Thanks, but I have a beer. And the person I’m waiting for should be here any minute.”

“Oh. You wanna give me your number?”

“Tell you what. Give me an hour with this person, and I promise next time I’m here I’ll look for you. Fair enough?”

His grin widened. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

Huh, she thought. Fair enough really is a powerful phrase. Montie was right. She lifted her glass and dipped her head. “Cheers, Cheney.”

He wandered back to the bar. In her peripheral vision, she noted a few other guys eyeing her—the minimum a woman sitting alone could expect in a place like this. But the sight of Cheney’s efforts coming to naught was probably deterring them. Or at least delaying.

Joey Ramone gave way to Social Distortion’s “Story of My Life,” and then to Green Day’s “One-Eyed Bastard.” Valeria checked the time on her phone. Five thirty-two. Thirteen minutes and she was—

She saw the outfit approaching first—white silk blouse and navy suit. Then the shoes—exquisite pumps of a sensible height, doubtless, she realized with a vague touch of envy, Jimmy Choo, maybe Manolo Blahnik. She looked up. Carol Jenkins, still undeniably attractive at fifty-two, probably from daily Pilates and an extensive skincare routine, dark hair loose, a thin gold necklace, makeup consisting of not much more than a bit of eyeliner. The woman waved as they made eye contact, and gave Valeria a tight, close-lipped smile.

Valeria was irritated to feel how hard her heart had started thudding. It didn’t make any sense. This woman couldn’t hurt her. She was nothing. Valeria was a congressperson-elect, on the cover of magazines and soon to be interviewed by Cliff Brite on Brite Night. The whole thing was ridiculous.

She stood, mindful of not seeming petty. Jenkins held out a hand. “Valeria,” she said. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Valeria shook her hand. The woman had a nice grip—confident, but not overdone. “Hi, Carol.”

“You must be incredibly busy. I really appreciate your taking the time.”

“It’s okay.” Valeria nodded toward the bar. “You want to get a beer . . . ?”

“I’m fine. I don’t drink.”

In Valeria’s experience, not drinking usually meant recovering from addiction. Despite everything, she felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry, we didn’t need to meet in a bar.”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t . . . I mean, it’s fine.”

Jenkins took the chair opposite and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was awkward but Valeria didn’t want to go first.

And then the woman’s eyes welled up. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a surprised little laugh. “I’ve seen so many pictures of you. Your dad’s, and of course now in the news. But . . . God, you really look like him.” Another little laugh. “I mean, but prettier.”

The woman brushed away the incipient tears. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “You must miss him, too.”

Valeria had missed him since she was fifteen, when he’d abandoned the three of them. And she might have said so. But she was surprised, and even moved, by the woman’s sudden grief. Héctor had been dead for a decade and a half. If Jenkins was still crying over him, they must really have been in love.

Of course, Josie had loved him, too.

Whatever else she’d been expecting to feel talking to this woman, confusion wasn’t it. “Of course I do,” she said.

Jenkins nodded, maybe in acknowledgment of the terseness of the reply. “I know I already said it in my Facebook message, and I know you might not want to hear it from me anyway. But God, he would be so proud of you right now. I’m sorry he didn’t get to see what you’ve become. And . . . to share that joy with you.”

And suddenly, Valeria didn’t trust herself to speak. She took a sip of beer to buy an extra moment, then said, “Can I ask, what was the time-sensitive matter you mentioned?”

“Of course,” Jenkins said, smoothly handling another brusque reply. “A reporter contacted me. Sara Roper from Sting Magazine. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—say anything to her that could hurt you or your family. But from her questions, it sounded like they want to go negative.”

“Yeah, I know about the article.”

Jenkins blinked. “You do?”

Valeria realized she shouldn’t have revealed that she knew anything. What did the revelation gain her, and what might it have given away?

Ease up, Val. You don’t have to impress this woman, with your awesome inside knowledge or anything else. It doesn’t matter either way.

“I know some of the people they’ve contacted,” Valeria said, the damage already having been done. “But they haven’t contacted me. Under the circumstances, that suggests they’re not interested in nuance or context.”

Jenkins nodded. “They’re interested in an agenda. I’ve dealt with more than a few of those.”

Valeria didn’t want to inquire further. She didn’t like the feeling of needing something from this woman. Needing anything. But if she didn’t press, what was the point of even being here?

“What did they want to know?” she said.

Jenkins looked away for a long moment, then back at Valeria. “Why your father left his family.”

And before she could stop herself, Valeria blurted out the question she had sworn she would never allow this woman to answer.

“Why did he?” she said.

CHAPTER 17

I have great respect for the past.

—Maya Angelou

Héctor was scared by how fast Emiliano was driving along the dark road, but still he couldn’t stop laughing. Partly because Tuto was so funny in back, with his cracks about the brightly lit Beverly Hills mansions they were blowing past and how the gueras who lived in them would be ruined forever by just a taste of chicano chile. And partly because he couldn’t have these three vatos thinking Héctor Vélez was a punk. Tuto and Martín and Emiliano used to run with Héctor’s brother Ramón, who would have been twenty now. No, twenty-one, because today was Héctor’s eighteenth birthday and until the accident, Ramón had been exactly three years, ten days older. Héctor had worshipped Ramón. He would never tell anyone, but when he was alone, Héctor still cried over him.

It was crazy to steal a car from outside the neighborhood in Pacoima, but Martín was a valet at a country club in Bel-Air, and when he parked the members’ cars, he liked to check the glove compartment for registration, which listed the owner’s home address. Sometimes he would find a valet key, too. But even with the information and the access, Martín had to be careful. Cops weren’t stupid, and it wouldn’t be long before they realized the common element with all the stolen cars was the cabrón who parked them at the club.

But the beauty of it was that Emiliano also worked at the club, as a caddie, and sometimes he would overhear the golfers talking about some vacation or business trip. When that happened, Emiliano and Martín would compare their information, and if the poor pendejo who owned the car parked it in a driveway or on the street, well, for as long as the person was away, the three homies would have themselves what Tuto liked to call a barrio rental ride.

Tonight they had invited Héctor along for his birthday, and they had picked up the latest model Mercedes, a 1993 560SEC—way different from the Chevrolet Impalas and Cadillac Fleetwoods popular in the hood, but hey, stealers can’t be choosers and besides, Tuto was always saying if you’re boosting a barrio rental ride, might as well make it a good one.

It was all fun, but still, Héctor was nervous being in this white part of the city. Four vatos from Pacoima would have stuck out just walking the sidewalk here, let alone driving this fancy car and speeding on top of it. And even though he was laughing at Tuto’s jokes, maybe the others had picked up on his discomfort, because Martín leaned forward and held out the joint he had just fired up. “Hey ese,” he said, a cloud of smoke ejecting along with the words. “Go ahead, enjoy, it’s your birthday.”

The truth was, Héctor wasn’t much for motta. He smoked it sometimes, but tried not to inhale too much if no one was looking closely. He didn’t really like the way it made him feel—off balance and disconnected from his own body. Besides, people said Ramón had been smoking when the accident happened, and even if motta hadn’t been the cause, who could really say? But he took a hit anyway. Maybe it would ease his nervousness.

He handed the joint to Emiliano, who made a loud sucking sound as he inhaled. They all laughed. Tuto leaned forward and punched Emiliano in the shoulder. “Do you even know where you’re going, cabrón?”

Emiliano handed the joint over his shoulder to Tuto. “Yeah, dumbass, this is Sunset Boulevard. East to the 101. And don’t punch me, I’m trying to drive.”

Héctor hoped they’d get to the highway soon. They’d be less conspicuous there. To make himself feel better, he imagined where they’d be a half hour from now. Back in Pacoima, maybe in the Queens Burgers parking lot, everyone wishing him felicidades for his birthday, everyone impressed that he was a vato loco, stealing a car from all the way in Beverly Hills.

He thought of Josie and felt a pang of concern. Josie didn’t understand that sometimes a guy had to prove himself. Well, maybe she wouldn’t even hear about the car. But probably she would. She was only sixteen, but she seemed always to know about everything. Héctor had dated a lot of girls—he was a good-looking guy, he knew, and girls liked him—but Josie was the smartest. Also the strictest. Sometimes the guys teased him—Héctor, you’re not even married, quit being such a panocha. He didn’t want people to think that, but . . . he really liked Josie. She was the only girl he’d ever cried in front of, the time he told her about Ramón. And she didn’t laugh or anything. She cried, too, and she held him. And that was the first time they went all the way, and her first time ever. And it wasn’t like it had been with other girls. He cried again with her after and he didn’t even know why, and she held him again. He could never tell anyone because he knew they’d make fun of him, but . . . he thought maybe he was in love with Josie. He wondered if he would ever say it. He wanted to, but he was scared. Maybe she’d laugh. Maybe she wouldn’t say it back. Maybe people would hear about it and call him panocha.

The car bounced—they must have hit a pothole or something. The rest of the guys cracked up, but Héctor was really starting to feel like maybe none of this was such a great idea. They were smoking weed, and Emiliano was driving too fast, and they were in this white neighborhood, all in a stolen car. Josie was going to be angry, and make him feel stupid, and what could he really say? This was stupid.

And then the car’s interior lit up in blue and red and Héctor heard a siren. Fear shot through him. He glanced back. A police car.

“¡La placa!” Martín shouted. “Go man, go!”

The engine roared and Héctor got slammed back into the seat as the car rocketed forward. Mierda, he wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt. He groped, his heart hammering, and couldn’t find it. Wait, there, he grabbed it with shaking fingers and managed to get it buckled.

The flashers faded and for a second Héctor felt hope—this was some car, maybe even faster than a chota cruiser. But then the siren was wailing again, continuously this time, and the Mercedes’s interior was filled with spinning blue and red light. Héctor glanced at the speedometer. Chingada, they were doing almost eighty, and the chota was still with them—

They came to a curve in the road. Emiliano went faster. And suddenly there were cars in both lanes ahead of them, and Emiliano slammed on the brakes, and the Mercedes was flung in a circle, the streetlights and houses flying around them, and—

BOOM! The side of the car slammed into something and they stopped. Héctor felt a bolt of pain in his right knee. He blinked, trying to get his bearings. His door looked funny. He blinked again and saw it was bent inward. But why was everything so yellow? He looked out his window and saw they were under a streetlight, they’d hit a streetlight—

Emiliano shouted “¡Vámonos!” and threw open the driver door. Instantly he was gone. Héctor struggled with his own door but it wouldn’t budge.

“Héctor, come on!” Tuto shouted, and then he and Martín were gone, too.

Héctor’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he could hear it. He yanked off the seatbelt and scrambled over the gear shift. Another bolt of pain exploded in his knee. Everything was moving in slow motion and taking too long, too long—

He grabbed the steering wheel, swung his feet toward the open door, and braced to leap. And then froze, because pointed at his face in the yellow light was the biggest cuete he’d ever seen. The hole at the front was black and looked like a giant tunnel. And behind it was a blue uniform. A chota.

Héctor held up his hands and thought, Josie’s going to kill me.

CHAPTER 18

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.

—L.P. Hartley

Los Angeles Men’s Central Jail was horrible, but Héctor comforted himself by imagining how it could have been even worse.

He’d been in for two months, with three other guys in a cell built for two. But the whole place was as overflowing as its stopped-up toilets, and some of the cells had six men in them, so four wasn’t even that bad. His cellmates were okay, too. All vatos from East L.A. All waiting for sentencing, like him. All on minor drug charges.

He knew it wasn’t a coincidence that the guys he celled with weren’t hard dudes. The people who ran the jail knew the kind of problems they’d get if they mixed Bloods and Crips, or blacks and Mexicans, or lifers with people just awaiting sentencing, like him. Not that they always got it right, from what he heard, but it seemed like keeping similar types together was at least a guideline.

His first night was pretty bad, though. The stink of antiseptic that didn’t cover the smell of sweat and piss so much as mix with it. The heat and rank humidity, so heavy it felt like a weight on his chest. And the noise—electronic locks clacking, steel bars slamming, some guy at the other end of the block screaming for hours that he was going to kill himself. And when the screaming suddenly stopped, it was almost worse, because Héctor couldn’t help thinking maybe the guy had actually done it, or worse, someone had finally said Fuck it and done it for him, just to shut him up.

But the next morning, as the block lined up in the cafeteria for a carton of milk and eggs so watery they might have been yellow soup, a tatted-up cholo with biceps like softballs got alongside Héctor and told him he was going to be okay.

“We know you didn’t tell the chota anything,” the guy said. “So far, anyway. You got plans to change that?”

Héctor, scared, shook his head.

The guy nodded. “One of your friends has a brother who’s mi hermano. He appreciates you’re being a standup guy for his family. Keep your mouth shut, and you’ll do easy time. Anyone who tries to fuck with you, they know they’re fucking with us. ¿Tu me entiendes?”

Héctor nodded. He understood.

“They’re going to try to scare you,” the guy said. “Between the expensive car and the weed they found, the judge will set bail high to keep you in here. The prosecutor’s office is going to threaten to bring felony charges, not just misdemeanor. But even if they do, your worst case is three years. Can you do that time, ese?”

At the words three years, Héctor’s stomach, which was already struggling with the smell of the food and the surroundings, lurched. But he managed to nod.

The guy clapped him on the shoulder hard. “Órale. Listen, do you box?”

Héctor, who hadn’t even been in a schoolyard fight since he was ten, shook his head.

“We got a guy—Diego—probably would be the world welterweight champion today but he got himself busted so now he’s in here. He’ll teach you some things you should know.”

It didn’t sound bad, but Héctor would have been afraid to say no regardless. “Okay.”

The guy smiled as though he knew what Héctor was thinking. “I’m Ángel. You need anything—and I mean fucking anything, ese—you ask me. You’re going to be all right. We’re watching out for you.”

As Ángel walked away, Héctor’s knees started to wobble. He knew that watching out for you and watching you were two sides of a coin. Thank God he hadn’t said anything in the interrogation room. It wasn’t that he was being a hard guy, he had just been too scared to talk. The chotas had asked him again and again who he was with. They told him if he would cooperate even a little they could help him with the judge. But Héctor had just kept shaking his head and repeating I don’t know. And once he said it the third time and nothing happened, saying anything else felt dangerous. So he’d stuck to those three words like a prayer.

It turned out Ángel had been right about everything. The bail was impossibly high. The prosecutor decided on felony charges. Men’s Central would be his home at least until trial.

Seeing his mother cry in the courtroom while the deputies led him away in shackles had broken Héctor’s heart. His father’s look of shame had almost been worse. That Josie hadn’t been there had been horrible, too. She must have hated him. He told himself it was better this way. Hate would make it easier for her to forget him and move on.

The anxiety was bad, though. Were they really going to keep him in here for three years? It seemed impossible, unendurable. And not knowing made it worse.

Still, at least nobody messed with him, as Ángel had promised. It was almost funny, to think the one thing you could rely on in this fucked-up system was the word of a hard-assed cholo.

He was lying on his cot, reminding himself how fast time could go. He’d already been in high school for over three years. It felt like nothing, like it had started just yesterday, but still it was longer than the longest they could keep him in here. Wasn’t a whole month already done? He imagined himself walking out of this place, seeing the blue sky and smelling the clean air. It would all seem like a nightmare, and it would fade in the daylight just like nightmares did.

He heard rubber-soled shoes squeaking along the painted floor. A guard.

The footsteps stopped outside his cell. “Vélez,” the guard said. “Someone here to see you.”

The guard escorted him to the visiting area. Héctor assumed it was his father or mother. They’d come five times already. But as he approached one of the booths, he saw he’d been wrong.

On the other side of the thick glass was Josie.

His mouth went dry and his heart started hammering. She was always petite, a head shorter than he was, but sitting there, surrounded by the awful grimness of Men’s Central, she seemed almost tiny. So young and out of place, clean and innocent and scared. And with her black hair tied back, and a simple white shirt and blue jeans, so beautiful he might have been looking at an angel.

She saw him. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes filled up.

He sat on the torn cushioned stool and picked up the phone. She did the same. Her tears spilled over.

“Josie,” he said, trying to control himself. “No. Don’t cry. You’ll make me cry, and it’s not good if they see you cry in here.”

She scrunched up her face and cried harder.

“Josefina,” he said, because he loved the sound of her full name and because he would say it over and over when they were lying in bed afterward, naked and spent. “Josefina. It’s okay. I’m okay. And I’m sorry. I was so, so stupid.”

He had to stop to fight back tears. She was still crying, but she nodded.

He waited a moment, then said, “I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” She didn’t answer, and he added, “I think about you. All the time. But I don’t want you to have to come to this place, you know? And they say . . . I could be here for a while. As long as three years.”

She dropped her head. He watched as her shoulders shook and wished he could think of something that would comfort her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “And so smart. You don’t need a pendejo like me. You’ll find someone better. Maybe . . . maybe you’ll even look back and think this was for the best. I want that for you, Josie. I really do.”

She looked at him, her eyes red and her face wet.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

For two seconds? Ten? Héctor was so stunned he couldn’t think of a word to say. It was like the time in second grade when Jorge Contreras had punched him in the stomach, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t even draw a breath.

Finally, he managed to stammer, “What . . . what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. “What are . . . what do you want to do?”

“What do you want, Héctor?”

Maybe it was the way she’d asked. Or that she’d asked. It didn’t matter. The answer came to him all at once. He was sure of it, as sure as he was of his own name.

He straightened and looked into her beautiful, dark eyes, so red from crying. “I want you to have our baby, Josefina.”

For a strange instant, her features seemed to wobble, almost to dissolve. Héctor couldn’t tell if it was grief, or joy, or some other thing he didn’t have a name for.

“I want you to be the mother of our son or our daughter,” he went on, astonished at the certainty he felt, the clarity. “And I want to be that child’s father. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. I want to make a family with you.”

She was still crying. He thought he had never in his life felt more tender toward someone. More protective. More grateful.

“Please,” he said. “I need to know you and the baby will be waiting for me. To get me through this.” He swallowed, then added, “Wait for me, my beautiful Josefina, and I will never, ever ask you for anything again.”

CHAPTER 19

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

—William Faulkner

Héctor stood on the tarmac at Air Force Plant 42 in Palmdale, the air cool and the blue sky cloudless. The team could have watched from the hangar, of course, but they all wanted nothing between them and the history about to be made. It would still be years before the plane entered active military service, but if all went well—knock wood—December 15th, 2006 would be remembered proudly as the day of the maiden flight of America’s F-35A Lightning II, the most advanced fighter the world had ever seen.

Carol smiled at him and he felt that little flip-flop in his gut that had been plaguing him since they’d met two years earlier, when Héctor had been promoted to head of quality control for the F-35’s development. Carol was chief engineer, which required all the education and carried all the glory. But she knew if the QC was managed poorly, at a minimum they would face worsening delays and cost overruns. And if things went really badly—on, say, a day like today—people could die. She never failed to show her respect and gratitude for how painstakingly Héctor sweated the details. But he also felt that in her appreciation there was always something . . . more.

Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed eight months earlier when she’d offered to let him use her Palmdale condo on the nights she stayed in Santa Monica, where she owned a house on the beach. The arrangement made sense, of course, because the daily commute to and from Pacoima had been killing him, and even one night a week in Palmdale shaved the weekly slog by twenty percent. It was part of how he’d sold the idea to Josie: the time he’d save could be used for an extra shift at the plant, the extra money from which meant they’d be able to move to Valencia, which had the kind of quality schools for Valeria and Mateo Josie had become obsessed about. And hadn’t it worked out exactly as he said?

As for telling Josie the Palmdale place he was going to crash at was owned by someone named Carl, not Carol, well, that was just to make sure Josie didn’t get the wrong idea. And if neither he nor Carol mentioned the arrangement to anyone else at work, and if Héctor was always careful to park his car in the condo’s garage . . . that was just so people wouldn’t gossip. It’s not like he and Carol ever stayed there together. The whole point was that he could use the condo when it was empty.

And he didn’t mind getting a night, or sometimes two, every week in Palmdale. He loved Josie, he really did, and he loved Valeria and Mateo more than anything in the world. But sometimes their house felt suffocating. And not just because it was small. Josie had become so focused on the kids, she didn’t want to talk about anything else, she didn’t have any other interests. She tried to pretend, but she didn’t like hearing about his work at Lockheed. He understood why—she’d given up her own future while Héctor was in prison, and now Héctor didn’t just have a good job, he had an actual career, he did important work and got a lot of respect for it. Of course Josie was glad for the income, but even that had become mostly a measure of what schools Valeria and Mateo might attend and what colleges they could eventually afford.

An Air Force ground crew member walked backward ahead of the taxiing aircraft, motioning to guide the pilot. At the sight of the plane, the huge crowd of visitors on the bleachers across the runway broke into cheers. Even from a hundred yards away and wearing ear plugs, Héctor could hear the Pratt & Whitney engine growling like a dragon straining against a leash.

The crew member stepped out of the way and saluted. Héctor felt his chest tighten. They all knew the man in the cockpit, Air Force test pilot Jon Beesley, a dryly funny guy who’d been closely involved with every aspect of the development and evaluation of the plane. If something went wrong today, it would be worse than just losing Jon. The team would feel they’d killed him.

But everything would be fine. Fine. Jon had logged hundreds of hours in the simulator. They’d repeatedly stress-tested every element of the fuselage, the engine, the avionics. And of course a prototype, the X-35A, had flown successfully six years earlier. It would be fine.

Carol smiled at him again. For a weird second, he wished he was holding her hand.

The plane turned onto the runway. Through the glass canopy, Jon gave them all a thumbs-up, then looked straight ahead. An instant later, the engine’s growl intensified, escalating to a scream, a roar, and the plane jumped forward like a sprinter off the starting blocks, moving faster, faster, tearing along the tarmac, the sound of the engine an earthquake now, a thunderclap—

Come on, come on, come on—

And then the leash tore free and the dragon was soaring into the sky, the air behind it scorched to a shimmering wake by the heat of the turbofan engine. The visitors on the bleachers leaped to their feet and cheered, and the team erupted in whoops and hollers, high-fives and hugs. Héctor turned to Carol, and there she was, already looking at him, her face lit up in pure, radiant joy. He felt his own smile widen and without thinking he moved toward her, his hands coming forward, and she stepped in and threw her arms around his neck. Without his meaning it to happen his hands went to the small of her back and pulled her even closer, and the feel of her breasts and her body pressed against him, the muscles along her spine beneath his fingers, was so overwhelming that for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He was horrified to feel himself getting hard, and he moved his hands to her waist and pressed her gently away, hoping to create a little space between them. She seemed to understand because she moved in response to the pressure of his hands, but as she did so her fingertips trailed along the back of his neck and the edge of his jaw, then rested for a moment against his chest.

Somehow they managed to move away from each other. They both laughed a little awkwardly, then turned and began congratulating everyone else on the team.

In the years that followed, Héctor came to understand that though a conspiracy had been brewing between them for some time, it had culminated that day. The crime, the coverup, the confession . . . all that had come later. But the commitment began under a clear blue sky, amid a cheering crowd, on ground trembling from the overhead roar of their plane’s virgin flight. It began when everything else in that moment was eclipsed by what they felt in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER 20

Politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia.

—George Orwell

By the time Jenkins was done talking, Valeria felt ill. She looked at her beer and realized she’d barely touched it.

“I’m sorry,” Jenkins said. “Was that . . . too much?”

Valeria’s fingertips wandered to her forehead as though to confirm she was all still there. “He never talked about prison,” she said. “I mean, my brother and I had never even heard about it until the night he left. And that was from my mother.”

She stopped. Sharing any of this with Jenkins felt like a betrayal. But she also knew this might be her only opportunity to learn—to understand—what had really happened.

“He didn’t like to talk about it,” Jenkins said. “He only told me once.”

“She told us it was a carjacking.”

“No. Just a stupid joyride.”

Valeria wasn’t completely surprised. Josie had been so consumed by rage and resentment about the present . . . it made sense that she would also rewrite the past.

“So that’s where he learned to box,” Valeria said. “I used to ask him, when he was coaching my brother and me when we were kids. ‘You’re teaching us; who taught you?’ And he would always say, ‘Just some people in the neighborhood.’ But the neighborhood was prison, is that right?”

Jenkins nodded. “He really loved teaching you and Mateo. He thought you both could have gone pro. You especially.”

Valeria said nothing. The memory was too painful. She’d loved boxing, and never loved her dad more than when he was coaching her. He had so many insights and so much patience. Always a knack for explaining something she was having trouble with, bolstering her when she got discouraged, helping her find hidden reserves of strength even when she was sure she was gassed.

Josie had been consistently opposed. For her son, too, but even more for her daughter. Valeria had always assumed Josie just hated the sport. She warned incessantly about broken noses and cauliflower ears, demanding Who would want to date a girl with scars all over her face? And Valeria’s responses were always the same: Mom, we wear headgear and gloves, my nose and ears are safe. But now Valeria wondered whether Josie’s opposition had something to do with where Héctor had learned his skills in the ring, whether there had been some vestigial sense that teaching those skills to his children was connecting them to a past Josie wanted buried.

“I wondered why Dunne didn’t use it,” Valeria said. “You know, the felon’s daughter, that kind of thing. Maybe the records were old, they weren’t available online?”

“Maybe,” Jenkins said. “But even if Dunne’s oppo research people came across the records, the offense is listed as a misdemeanor now.”

Valeria shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“Lockheed had an outreach program for ex-felons. Only for positions that didn’t require a security clearance. But over time, your dad impressed so many people so much that the company pulled strings to get his record changed to a misdemeanor and make him eligible for a clearance. That’s when he started working on the F-35.”

And suddenly Valeria was hit by a wave of grief and shame and regret. All those years of believing everything Josie told them. Not returning Héctor’s calls. Not opening his letters. Some of it was wanting to please their mother. Some of it was fear of Josie’s rage if they didn’t comply. And some of it was a kind of protective anger. His leaving hurt so much . . . she hadn’t been strong enough to examine any of it, to be open to any explanation more nuanced than that their father was a selfish, evil villain. She’d needed that anger to protect her from the pain.

There were so many things she should have asked him. Even if she couldn’t have understood at the time, she might have understood now. Probably somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, she’d thought one day she would see him again. Talk to him. Maybe even forgive him. Assumptions all foreclosed by a tearful call from Mateo, spring semester of her freshman year at San Jose State, telling her Héctor was dead from a heart attack.

Valeria sighed. “This is why we moved to Valencia.”

Jenkins didn’t respond. Well, of course. Valeria’s mind was racing back, reexamining, rearranging, but Jenkins already knew.

Josie had been militant about getting out of Pacoima from the time Valeria had started at the middle school there, going on and on about the reputation of Valencia’s schools, their college admission rates, all that stuff. Initially it had exasperated Héctor, and sometimes even enraged him. Wasn’t he providing for the family with nothing more than a G.E.D.? Was Josie ashamed of Pacoima? Ashamed of him?

Now she understood. Their father had used Valencia, or at least had agreed to it, as a pretext. A way to get their mother to go along with his spending more time in Palmdale.

“So that was the first time?” Valeria said. “That night after the flight test?”

Jenkins nodded. “The team went out to celebrate. Margarita pitchers. It was your dad’s turn at the condo, but he told me I shouldn’t be driving back to Santa Monica after drinking. I told him he shouldn’t drive to Pacoima. And . . .”

Valeria held up a hand to indicate she’d heard enough. The night it had all come out was her worst memory. She’d learned to push it away and never thought about it anymore. But she thought of it now.

She’d been doing algebra homework in the room she shared with Mateo because a two-bedroom house was all they could afford now. Valencia was only twenty minutes up the highway from Pacoima but Valeria hated it, hated still feeling like the new girl even though they’d been there for three years and she was now a freshman in high school. She hated the kids who made fun of her secondhand clothes, her lack of brand-name style, her crooked teeth that needed braces her parents couldn’t afford. She hated always feeling that she didn’t belong, that she wasn’t wanted, that her mom had uprooted them all and stuck her in this new place where even though for over a year she’d been getting her period she still had to share a bedroom with her annoying little brother.

Héctor had knocked, then opened the door. Come to the kitchen, Mom and I need to talk to you. He smiled but there was something false about it, and before getting up, she and Mateo had glanced at each other nervously.

As they sat down in the kitchen, though, she thought maybe she’d been wrong to feel nervous. Mom’s expression was so stony, maybe Dad had persuaded her Valencia was all a mistake, and they were moving back to Pacoima? It made sense—Valeria had always sensed Héctor hated Valencia as much as she did.

Instead, their father told them he’d gotten a new job. A better one, one that maybe could help buy a bigger house. Wouldn’t the kids like that? Wouldn’t Valeria like her own bedroom?

Of course she would have liked her own bedroom. But compared to moving back to Pacoima, it wasn’t even a consolation prize. It was a cruel disappointment.

And then he told them the job was on the East Coast. Near Washington, D.C. So he’d be away more. A lot more. But he’d be back, on lots of weekends, holidays, maybe the summer . . .

And that’s when Josie had lost her shit.

“Tell them the truth!” she screamed in Spanish, even though they mostly used English in the house. “Tell them you’re abandoning them! Abandoning your family! For a fucking white puta you’ve been fucking for years! For years!”

Their mom could have a temper, but Valeria had never seen her like this, so enraged that spit flew as she screamed about how she’d stood by Héctor when he was in prison, which Valeria had never even heard about before. How it had ruined her life, how she had to drop out of school, how she could have become an aesthetician like her tía but she gave up that dream to be a teenage single mother helping her own mother clean houses because Héctor had begged her to have the baby and stick by him and she had, she’d sacrificed her youth and her future and broken her body just so her lying culero of a husband could leave them all for some fucking white puta!

The rest of the night was blurry. She remembered rushing back to the bedroom with Mateo, who was crying as hard as she was. Locking the door, pulling a pillow over her head, hearing the screaming in the kitchen go on and on and on. Shouting Go away! when Héctor knocked, asking to talk to them. Shouting it again and again, even as his requests turned to pleas.

At some point he’d left. And then, throughout the night, with demonic energy Josie had carried all his belongings out of the house and dumped them in the driveway—clothes, bathroom stuff, keepsakes, everything, swearing and screaming for hours as she’d done it. It had all been lying out there the next morning when Valeria and Mateo, exhausted and still in shock, trudged out for school, and the sight of all of their absent father’s things strewn like garbage in the driveway had made them both burst into tears again. Mateo, sobbing, had stooped and picked up Héctor’s boxing gloves, the ones he’d worn the day he won the California Golden Gloves state championship, and even though Josie screamed at him to not touch any of it, for once Mateo defied her and carried the gloves off to school.

When they came back that afternoon, everything was gone.

Mateo kept the gloves in his room. Though they had been Héctor’s most prized possession, even more prized than his championship belt, he never tried to get them back. Mateo, probably caught between anger at their father and fear of their mother, never offered. And Josie, perhaps herself afraid to deny or defile something so obviously precious to her son, never touched the gloves again, or spoke of their continued presence in Mateo’s room, a stubborn reminder of a man who over time she stopped speaking of entirely.

Héctor had called, and sent emails and letters. Valeria wouldn’t talk to him, or respond. She told herself it was because she was so angry at him for leaving. But the truth was, the boycott was at least as much driven by fear of Josie’s rage.

And after he’d left, Valeria had never boxed again.

“You couldn’t have just left it at that?” she said, staring at her almost untouched beer. “Just the one time? Or even a bunch of times. You had to have him for yourself?”

Jenkins didn’t respond. Valeria kept staring at the beer, watching as here and there a white bubble would break loose and climb the side of the glass.

Finally, Jenkins said, “It wasn’t my idea.”

Valeria looked at her, needing to hear, desperately not wanting to.

“I’m not trying to justify any of it,” Jenkins said. “But after the F-35, they wanted me in Bethesda. At headquarters. It was more than a promotion—I was being groomed for the top. I put it off for as long as I could, but when I ran out of excuses, I was afraid that even as discreet as your father and I had been, people might start to . . . speculate.”

Valeria laughed harshly. “That’s why you took the position in Bethesda? To protect my father? My family?”

“In part, yes. And also because I was ambitious. I’d been divorced once, I didn’t have kids, I didn’t want to get married again. I thought I could make the job enough for me. I told your father we always knew it would have to end, and Bethesda was the right moment. But . . . he didn’t want it to end. He loved you, Valeria. And your brother. But he wasn’t happy at home.”

Valeria shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

It was the literal truth. She didn’t want to hear it. Grapple with it. Face it.

She’d seen her parents’ relationship changing as she got older. Josie’s increasing obsession with school and grades and college. Héctor’s initial resistance to the monomania retreating to a weary acquiescence. Maybe he’d rationalized that Valencia was a way of getting them what they both wanted. Maybe even of keeping the family together. Maybe he hadn’t seen where it would all lead.

She so wished she could ask him. She hated having to rely on intermediaries to explain. Her mother was hardly a reliable narrator. And for her own reasons, Jenkins was unlikely to be much better.

She wanted to scream, She hated him more than she loved us. Because of you.

But what would be the point?

“How did the magazine even know about you two?” Valeria said. “My parents never divorced.”

She might have added, My mother wouldn’t agree to it. But Jenkins would already know that.

“I don’t know,” Jenkins said. “We didn’t flaunt the relationship when we moved to Bethesda. But we weren’t exactly keeping it a secret anymore, either. I guess if someone wanted to sift through enough of the past, they could find some artifacts.”

“If you didn’t offer them anything about why my father left us, what are they going to write about?”

“I don’t know. I tried to find out without appearing too engaged. ‘Just a human-interest piece,’ was the response. But someone is digging deep. And the only thing people dig deep for is dirt.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Valeria kept her focus on the bubbles in her glass.

“I know the Pentagon announced they’re moving the NGAD program from Palmdale,” Jenkins said.

Valeria said nothing. She knew she needed Jenkins’s connections, but she didn’t want favors from her. Or at least she didn’t want to seem to want them.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jenkins said.

“Why?”

Jenkins looked at her. “If after everything we’ve talked about, you really can’t imagine the answer to that, forget I asked.”

A long moment passed.

Valeria sighed. “Do you know an Air Force Colonel named Aaron Walls?”

“The new head of DARPA’s Strategic Technology Office. Used to be with Counterproliferation. I’ve known him for years.”

Valeria told her about the meeting Dunne was trying to set up. How they hoped to get as many decisionmakers as possible into the room.

When she was done, Jenkins said, “I know all the AI people in the Pentagon. And the NGAD people, too, from my days at Lockheed. I’ll make some calls.”

“Thank you.” It hurt to say it.

They were quiet for a moment. Jenkins said, “I loved him, Valeria. I’m sorry, but I did.”

Valeria supposed she should be grateful for the woman’s help. But for a dozen reasons she felt resentful.

“Well,” Valeria said. “What can I do for you?”

“What do you mean?”

Valeria shrugged. “You gave me information. Offered to reach out to your contacts at the Pentagon. I assume you want something in return.”

Jenkins looked at her. “I didn’t come here to talk about the past. You asked.”

“You didn’t need much prompting.”

“If you didn’t want to hear, you could have said so. Anytime.”

“We could have talked on the phone. Why insist on a meeting, instead?”

Jenkins didn’t respond.

“We both know why,” Valeria went on. “You don’t really understand how much pain you caused, but you’ve got some idea. Your conscience bothers you, and you want forgiveness.”

Jenkins nodded as though considering. Then she said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Valeria. You’re a fast learner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re already as cynical as the worst I know.”

The nerve of this bitch, hitting back. “But am I wrong?”

“I’ve got plenty of money. Status in the world I’m part of. I’m not looking for more. What I told you tonight I told you out of love for your father. I don’t want favors from you. And I don’t need your forgiveness.”

Valeria took a belated sip of beer. The words stung. But damned if she would let the woman see it.

She set down the beer. “You said I’m a fast learner. You want to know what I’ve learned more than anything since dipping my toe in the sewers of American power?”

Jenkins said nothing.

“It’s this. Power isn’t only about money. Or status. And whatever it’s about? It’s never enough.”

For a long moment, Jenkins looked away, then back at Valeria.

“Ask yourself this, Valeria. If your dad wasn’t the bad guy you grew up thinking he was—if he was decent, and he loved you and your brother, and he also loved me—maybe I’m not the complete piece of shit you seem to think I am.”

She stood. “Have a good swim in that sewer, Congresswoman. I think you’ll go far there.”

CHAPTER 21

War is a racket.

—Marine Corps Major General Smedley D. Butler

The moment Jenkins was gone, Valeria drained her beer. It had gotten warm. She didn’t care.

It was all so confusing. Like having a structure’s foundation stones jarred violently into motion. So many things she’d believed for so long were suddenly unstable.

She’d expected to feel gross after meeting Jenkins. But she realized now she’d expected also to feel as though on balance she’d come out ahead. Instead, they’d slugged it out, and Jenkins won. Maybe not by knockout, but at least on points.

The prospect of being back at the hotel, processing what happened with Jenkins, was suddenly unappealing.

She started playing with her phone with no real aim other than delay. There was Brandon’s text. She looked at it for a moment.

Not a good idea, she thought.

She looked a moment longer. Fuck it. She pressed call.

Two rings, then, “Hey. Have you landed? I thought you’d still be in the air.”

“I never left,” she said. “Had a late meeting come up and couldn’t get a redeye. So one more night in paradise.”

He laughed.

“Anyway,” she heard herself say. “The meeting just ended. You feel like a beer?”

“Where are you?”

“A place called Newell’s Cocktail Time. Near SFO.”

“I know it well. I grew up in San Bruno. See you in about a half hour?”

“Great. I’ll keep the table.”

She’d just clicked off when Cheney reappeared, his courage probably enhanced by a few more beers. But whatever, if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. Besides, before Jenkins she hadn’t wanted the distraction. Now she welcomed it. To keep his hopes in check, she told him she had a date coming, and then engaged him in small talk, the small talk in question consisting of his telling her everything about the world and his opinions and himself and asking her not a thing. Which under the circumstances was of course fine, but was also perennially confusing. How was it possible guys didn’t understand the best route to the seduction they were presumably trying to pull off was just to talk less and listen more?

The promised half hour later, she saw Brandon approaching, wearing a leather motorcycle jacket. Under one arm was a helmet; in each hand was a draft beer. Cheney glanced in the direction of her wave.

“Guess this is your date,” he said, as Brandon reached the table. “Okay, I’ll be around if it doesn’t work out.”

Brandon watched as he moved off, then cocked an eyebrow at Valeria. “Is this a date?”

She laughed, a little embarrassed. “I told him I had a date coming just so he wouldn’t get his hopes up.”

“So it’s not a date?”

She laughed again. “Can I have one of those beers? Or are they both for you?”

He smiled and set one of the glasses in front of her. “Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Hope that’s okay.”

She raised the glass. “More than okay. Cheers.”

They touched glasses and drank. He blew out a breath and said, “Mmm. Needed that.”

She glanced at the helmet. “Why do I get the feeling that isn’t for a moped?”

He laughed. “Ducati.”

She smiled, thinking of the movie Top Gun. “You have a need for speed?”

“Well, my other ride isn’t an F-14. But I do have a Cirrus SR22 G6.”

Given their earlier Star Trek exchange, she wasn’t surprised he got the movie reference. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“A plane. Just a propeller model, not a jet. I fly with a club in Palo Alto.”

She gave him a Cheers to that lift of her glass. “How’s the post-Thaddeus damage control?”

“Not as bad as I expected. Or at least, to Dunne’s point, our competitors look more damaged than we are. How about you? Good meeting?”

It was weird how much she wanted to talk about it. Vomit it up, maybe, like something rancid she’d mistakenly swallowed. But she had to be careful.

“You ever hear of Carol Jenkins?”

He nodded. “Sure. Head of the Silicon Valley Defense Initiative. I shook hands with her once at an industry event. I doubt she’d remember. Was that your meeting?”

“Sort of.” She told him about Jenkins. About her parents. It wound up less abbreviated than she’d intended. By the time she was done, their beers were almost gone.

“You don’t know me well enough to trust me,” he said. “But you don’t have to worry about my repeating any of this.”

It was a nice thing to say. And she sensed it was true.

“Sounds like someone already knows,” she said. “But thanks.”

“What’s their angle though? We’ve had presidents survive revelations of affairs. And this wasn’t even you. It was your father, almost twenty years ago.”

“Maybe they’re just fishing.”

Brandon drummed his fingers on the table. “Maybe. But . . . from what you’ve told me? I’d go with using the Lockheed program to embarrass you.”

“How?

He shrugged. “Make you look like a hypocrite. I mean, you hate the defense industry—”

“I do not hate the defense industry—”

“Whatever. I doubt your enemies will make a nuanced presentation or give you the benefit of the doubt. It’ll be more like, ‘Valeria, isn’t one of the very companies you’ve been railing against responsible for rehabilitating your own father? For giving your family a future? For providing a foundation for you to build on to become a congresswoman and achieve the promise of the American Dream?’”

Valeria gave him an appalled little laugh. “I hope you’re not going to pass that along to anyone who might be inclined to use it.”

“It seems someone already is inclined. But if that’s the best they can do, I don’t think you have to worry.”

She smiled. “I’m all for second chances, and I salute any company willing to provide them. But we’d need fewer second chances if America—with less than five percent of the population of the world—didn’t warehouse twenty-five percent of the world’s prisoners.”

He laughed and raised his glass in a toast. “I’m sure Preston is good at what he does, but he can’t be better than you.”

She hadn’t been thinking of Preston, and for a moment she felt guilty. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, had she?

Brandon finished his beer and set down the empty glass. “Another?”

“Yeah, but let me.”

“No, come on. Even your enemies won’t be able to claim someone bribed you with a couple Sierra Nevadas.”

She watched him walk away. Despite what he’d said earlier about Navy SEALs, he didn’t have a swagger. But there was something . . . grounded in the way he moved. Solid. She saw a guy make a space for him at the bar as though by instinct, for which Brandon offered a polite nod.

And there was no doubt, he had a beautiful ass. She suppressed a laugh. These thoughts are unbecoming, Congresswoman. Shame on you.

He was back a moment later with two more beers. They touched glasses and drank.

“Where is Preston, anyway?” he said, looking around.

It was interesting that he’d waited so long to ask. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it meant he didn’t want to blow right past the topic during the upfront pleasantries, and so had waited until they could discuss it more thoroughly. Until they were on a second beer. Or, in her case, a third.

“He kept his flight back to Washington.”

He nodded. “So you guys . . .”

She shrugged. “We both get that all the time. Comes with the territory.”

He smiled. “I see you’ve already mastered the art of the non-denial denial.”

She smiled back. “Critical skill.”

“I guess it’s because the gossipy stuff sells. Or maybe to take you off message. I don’t know much about the media.”

“I think you know more than you let on.”

“Maybe. Anyway, in my case it’s not gossipy. It’s entirely self-interested.”

She laughed to conceal her surprise. And, she had to admit, her pleasure. “I thought Navy SEALs were known for their stealth,” she said.

“Oh, we are. But we can charge straight in, too, when the objective is important enough.”

She laughed again. “What about you? In a relationship?”

“I was. But it got to the fish-or-cut-bait stage, and . . . I cut bait.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be. I’m pretty consumed with the company anyway.”

“What about your brothers?”

“Single. We’ve been so busy none of us has much time for a social life, let alone dating. They’re even harder core about the mission than I am.”

“They must be pretty hard core.”

He nodded. “You know . . . that stuff I said to Preston. About sleepless nights. I’m not dumb. I know it’s a good speech. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

She liked that he seemed to be opening up to her. She realized she was a little buzzed, and reminded herself to be careful.

“I guess that’s a lot of this game,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to be a liar. But you can’t tell just the truth.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“That’s where it starts,” he said. “After that . . . you wind up using the truth in service of lies. And eventually, you don’t even know the difference. Or care.”

She watched him sipping his beer, again liking that he seemed to be opening up to her, but at the same time unnerved by the perceptiveness of his words.

“How do you know this?” she said. “I mean, you’re not a politician.”

He laughed. “For one thing, I spent six years in the military. Let’s just say generals and admirals have a different way of looking at the world. But they all started in the same place as the rest of us. I figure it’s the same with politicians. And anyway, all these people are politicians, even if the formal labeling varies.”

He glanced past her, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I want to ask you to do something.”

It sounded half dangerous, half alluring.

“Okay.”

“Don’t look, all right?”

He waited, and she realized he wanted some kind of confirmation. She nodded.

“There’s a guy leaning against the wall behind you. About ten feet to my right. Five eight, hundred and sixty. Blue jeans, dirty white tennis shoes, light-blue button-down shirt. He was already here when I arrived, so it’s not about me.”

She would have thought he was being paranoid, but his delivery was so matter-of-fact and his voice so reassuring that she couldn’t help but take it seriously. “What is it about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. He’s moved around the room a few times as though he’s trying to get a different view of the television over the bar, but . . . if you don’t mind, get up and go to the restroom, and have a casual glance on the way. See if you recognize him.”

She gave a little chuckle she hoped would conceal her nervousness. “Is it okay for me to be alone? I don’t have Secret Service protection.”

“I don’t think he’s going to follow you. And if he does, I’ll be right behind him. He just seems out of place. Let’s give him a little tickle and see if he laughs.”

She nodded, took a sip of beer, and set down the glass. “Be right back. Just need the bathroom.”

He smiled, she hoped at how natural she had tried to sound. She got up and started walking. She saw the guy immediately. He was doing something on his phone, and seemed not to notice her as she passed. He didn’t look like anything. Maybe Brandon was being paranoid.

The guy was still there when she came back from the bathroom, still playing with his phone. She sat and took another sip of beer. Brandon’s glass was empty.

“How are we doing?” she said.

He cocked his head and his neck cracked, one side, then the other. “We’re good. I’m pretty sure our friend is here for other than the ambience.”

“He’s here for me?”

“I think so.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t feel like he’s got a reason to be here. And . . . he’s trying so hard to not pay attention to you that he might as well be paying attention. I mean, the rest of the guys in this room have snuck at least a half dozen glances apiece. Not him.”

She ignored the urge to turn aside the compliment. “Is this SEAL stuff?”

“Sort of. You get sensitive to patterns. Things that are out of place. Of course, what’s out of place in a combat environment is different from what’s out of place in a bar, but the principle’s the same.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Why would you? Anyway, I’m not always right. But better to err on the side of caution. You’re staying at a hotel?”

She nodded. “Airport Marriott.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I was going to call a rideshare.”

“Let me give you a ride. I’ve got an extra helmet on the bike.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, I’d feel better making sure you got back okay.”

“How concerned should I be?”

“Oh, I ride safely. At least when I have a passenger.”

“No, I mean—”

“I was kidding. He doesn’t strike me as dangerous. I just don’t know what he’s about, other than it seems an interest in you. But maybe I’m wrong. Let’s see if he follows us.”

CHAPTER 22

The whole system revolves around the idea that the majority can be made to believe anything, so long as it is repeated loudly and often.

—Edward Snowden

They headed out of the bar and made a left onto the sidewalk, then immediately made another. As soon as they were around the corner, Brandon put a hand on the small of her back. “Come on,” he said, pressing her to move a little faster.

Just beyond the building there was a parking lot illuminated by streetlights. Before that, a garage that looked like an old stable, and between the garage and the Newell’s building, an alley. As soon as they reached the alley Brandon steered them into it, easing Valeria ahead of him into the shadows alongside a row of trash cans.

The whole thing was so strange she didn’t know what to make of it. Everything about Brandon felt competent and assured and she didn’t feel unsafe. But at the same time, what the hell was going on?

A moment passed. Instinctively, she said nothing. Brandon had turned toward the sidewalk and she couldn’t see his face.

She heard footsteps, approaching quickly. Closer. And then there he was, the guy, craning his head forward as though trying to get a better view of where they could have gone—

Brandon stepped out of the alley. The guy turned his head, his mouth dropping open in a perfect O of surprise and alarm—

The guy started to step back, but Brandon had already snagged his collar and jerked him off balance. He spun the guy into the alley and slammed him back against the wall of the garage, one hand on the guy’s throat, the other gripping his right arm.

“Why are you following us?” Brandon said. His voice was low and steady, his tone weirdly calm in contrast with the hold he had on the guy’s throat.

The guy looked terrified. “I’m not!”

“Tell me why and that’ll be the end of it. Keep bullshitting and I’ll call 911 to report you as a stalker, and we’ll let the police sort it out.”

The guy looked confused. “You’re not going to hurt me?”

“If I wanted to hurt you, you’d already know.”

The guy swallowed. “Look, I’m nobody, just a stringer.” He glanced at Valeria. “Uh, congratulations Congresswoman.”

Are you kidding me? “What kind of stringer?”

“Photos. Look, I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just take pictures. Usually it’s VCs and CEOs. But sometimes celebrities, sometimes politicians. I guess you’re kind of both.”

Valeria didn’t get it. “You’re what, some kind of Silicon Valley paparazzi?”

“I guess you could say that.” He looked at Brandon. “Could you let me go? I’m answering your questions. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. It’s legal to take photos, okay?”

Brandon didn’t let go. “But not great for your reputation if you get caught.”

“Yeah, okay. But like I said, I’m answering your questions.”

“How did you know I’d be at the bar?” Valeria said.

“I got a call from someone at the hotel.”

Jesus. “Who?”

“Look, you know how it works in Hollywood? It’s like that here, too, more or less. The media wants photographs of movers and shakers. People like me make it a point to know the receptionists, the maître d’s, the concierges, the valets . . . I get a call, a newspaper gets a photo, my source gets a cut, everybody wins.”

He looked at Brandon. “I know you, too. You’re Brandon Chen, you’re the founder of that AI company Dendrite. See, I know everyone, I’m good at what I do. Pretty soon we’ll all be wearing facial recognition sunglasses, and talents like mine won’t matter anymore, but for now I’ve got a competitive advantage.”

First the waiter at Buck’s, and now this . . . Valeria felt a little sick to realize the extent to which her previous assumptions about personal privacy were already outmoded.

“How about the woman I was with?” she said. “Did you recognize her?”

“Look, I really don’t want to cause any problems—”

“So you didn’t recognize her? I thought you said you were good.”

“Carol Jenkins. The Silicon Valley Defense Initiative. See? I told you.”

Brandon glanced at Valeria, then back at the guy. “What’s your name?”

The guy didn’t answer.

Brandon released his grip. “Seems rude for you to know our names but not to introduce yourself.”

“Eddie,” the guy said.

Brandon nodded. “Okay, Eddie. How much do you expect to get for your photos?”

“I think a lot.” He smiled at Valeria. “Congresswoman, you photograph really well.”

“How much?” Brandon said again.

Eddie shrugged. “I was originally thinking the Chronicle or the Merc. But a leftwinger meeting with defense people? Now I’m thinking the Preempt, maybe the Chamber.”

Valeria felt her stomach tighten. Brandon said, “And they’ll give you what, two hundred?”

“Two hundred? A thousand at least.”

Brandon chuckled. “Nice try. You’ll be lucky to get three hundred. I’ll give you four.”

“Brandon,” Valeria said. “You can’t.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me. I don’t need the attention right now.” He looked at Eddie. “What do you say? Four hundred bucks?”

“Six hundred.”

“Five hundred.”

“Five-fifty.”

“Done.” Brandon took out his wallet and counted out the bills. Eddie held out his hand, but Brandon shook his head. “Unlock your phone. I’ll delete them myself. Local, deleted folder, the cloud.”

“Pay me first.”

Brandon looked at him. “You know how I said if I wanted to hurt you, you’d already know?”

Eddie said nothing.

“If I say I’m going to pay you,” Brandon went on, “you can count on that, too. But first we’re going to make sure those photos are gone.”

Eddie hesitated, then took out his phone, input a code, and handed it to Brandon. “Just the photos,” he said.

Brandon worked the screen for a minute. Then he handed the bills to Eddie and looked at Valeria. “Ready?”

Eddie held out a hand. “Hey. My phone.”

“My bike’s in the parking lot. Stay here and I’ll give you your phone on our way out. I don’t need you snapping any more photos tonight. Not that you would.”

“This is bullshit.”

“No, Eddie. You had a good night—five hundred fifty bucks for a few hours of standing around in a bar. I’ll be right back.”

Brandon and Valeria walked over to the lot. There were a dozen cars under the streetlights—and one motorcycle that looked like it was going a hundred miles an hour even parked. As they approached, she saw a logo on the side: Ducati RS Multistrada V4.

Brandon unlocked a compartment on the bike, took a helmet from inside, and handed it to Valeria. She looked at it, feeling the night couldn’t possibly get any more surreal, and concerned that maybe fate would take that as a dare.

“Uh, I’ve actually never been on a motorcycle.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“Hah-hah.”

He smiled. “I’ll be doing the hard part. All you need to do is hold on to my waist and lean with me when we turn.”

He opened a pair of foot pegs in back, straddled the bike, pulled on his helmet, and knocked back the kickstand with a heel.

She got the helmet on and adjusted the chinstrap. “Hey, you’re not drunk or anything, are you?”

“From two beers? Are you?”

“A little. I had three.”

“Well, you’re not driving.” He pointed to one of the foot pegs. “Get your right foot on that peg, then swing the other over the back of the bike. Like mounting a horse.”

“I’ve never ridden a horse, either.”

He laughed. “That’s okay. If you’ve seen it in the movies, you get the idea.”

She climbed on the way he said, feeling awkward.

He turned back toward her. “You’re going to want to lean close to me. Don’t worry, I won’t take it the wrong way.”

She almost asked, Which way would be the wrong way? But she just said, “Okay.”

He keyed the ignition and the engine growled to life. She liked the sound—low, assured, and powerful. She could feel it, too, humming through the cushioned seat.

“All right,” he said. “If your hands get cold, you can put them in my jacket pockets. Here we go.”

They rolled forward, the engine growling a touch louder now. At the end of the lot, Brandon paused and tossed Eddie’s cellphone onto the dirt at the base of a tree. Then he made a right onto the street, stopping in front of the alley and raising his helmet visor.

“Your phone’s under the tree at the entrance to the parking lot,” he said.

Eddie shook his head disgustedly. “You really are an asshole.”

“I can be, but not this time. Like I said, just making sure you’re done taking pictures.”

CHAPTER 23

Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

—Henry Kissinger

The moment Brandon pulled away and started to accelerate, Valeria understood why he’d wanted her to lean close—she felt like she might fly off the bike.

The hell with it, she thought, turning her head and pulling herself into him. You told me to.

Soon they were heading south on El Camino Real. Brandon was true to his word, keeping to surface roads rather than the highway and taking it easy though the bike was obviously capable of far more. Even without any notable speed, it was exhilarating to ride this way, holding him tight, cocooned by the growl of the engine, watching the world go past, not having to worry about anything, speed limits or traffic lights, where they were going or how they would get there. He’d been right about her hands getting cold, and a few minutes in she slipped them inside his jacket pockets. Through the thin interior fabric she could feel his stomach, hard and flat, and underneath it the thrum of the engine.

The ride couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes, but it seemed to go on for longer. Valeria wondered if maybe she was more buzzed than she’d realized.

Then they were easing to a stop under the hotel portico. Brandon cut the engine, and the sudden quiet felt like the breaking of a magic spell. A little reluctantly, she dismounted. She was surprised to realize she would have liked to keep going.

Brandon pulled off his helmet. She got hers off, too, then shook out her hair and, laughing out of sheer delight, said, “That was really fun.”

He smiled. “You sound surprised.”

“I never understood the appeal. But . . . I think I might be a convert.”

“You should get a bike. You’re already going to be the coolest person in Congress. A bike would make it next level.”

“I don’t know, Brandon. ‘Coolest person in Congress’ might be one of those land of the blind things.”

He laughed. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

They were quiet for a moment. “What do you make of that Eddie guy?” she said.

He shrugged. “Someone wants to undermine you.”

“Why now? The election’s over.”

“The election wasn’t the real fight. That was just you and Fillian. I mean, I like him, but ultimately he was only the first line of someone else’s defense. Now you’re closer to what they care about. They’re going to fight harder.”

“With photographs from a bar?”

“With whatever they can find. In the military it’s called EBO—effects-based operations. Basically, undermining the enemy with more than just kinetic strikes. Making people think what you want them to think by getting them to focus on what you want them to focus on. You know, PsyOps.”

“Jesus, you make it sound scary.”

“That’s half the point of military terminology. Except for the stuff for domestic consumption, that always sounds reassuring.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever have to name a program.”

“Anyway, it all just means roiling the surface to obscure the depths. If they can publish some photos of you doing something indecent, they can get people to think the one indecent thing is all they need to know about you, and suddenly no one cares anymore that you want a universal basic income or whatever.”

“Like that congresswoman someone filmed messing around with her date in a theater.”

“Exactly. I mean, who shot that video? Who paid for it?”

“God, who even cares?”

“Well, somebody must, or the bottom feeders wouldn’t keep trying to dredge up bullshit. Ultimately it’s got to be a demand-side problem, right?”

They were quiet again. She thought she should hand him the spare helmet, but didn’t want to seem like she was dismissing him or something.

He looked at her, smiling slightly.

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“What would you say if I offered to park the bike and walk you back to your room?”

She felt a flutter in her stomach.

“If I’d drunk one more beer?” she said. “I’d probably tell you I’d enjoy the company.”

“Why am I getting the feeling I should have gotten us another round?”

She laughed. “Remember, someone’s trying to dredge up bullshit. And according to paparazzi Eddie, I have to be careful about being spotted by people at the front desk.”

He was still smiling. “Isn’t that why God made side doors?”

She laughed again, but was starting to feel nervous. Why was she offering practical objections? Did she want them to be overcome? She thought of Preston and felt a pang of guilt that she was even contemplating inviting Brandon to her room. And that feeling immediately morphed into something darker, something all mixed up with Héctor and Jenkins and everything Valeria had heard from the woman earlier that evening.

She managed to say, “I think it could get . . . complicated.”

He nodded. “I hope you don’t mind that I asked.”

She shook her head, both disappointed and relieved. “I’m flattered.”

And if you knew what I’ll be doing in that hotel room a little while from now? And what I’ll be imagining while I’m doing it? You’d be flattered, too.

“Can I ask you something else?” he said.

“Sure.” Good God let me go before I change my mind.

“Are you going to tell Preston we got together tonight?”

She hadn’t even thought of that. “I think . . . that could get complicated, too.”

“I get it. Well, if you don’t tell, I won’t either.”

“Thanks.”

She handed him the helmet and watched while he stowed it in its compartment.

“I felt pretty crappy after that meeting,” she said. “I’m glad you were around when I called.”

He nodded. “Me, too.”

She held out her hand to shake. He took it, then surprised her by raising it to his lips and softly kissing the back of her fingers.

No, Valeria. Say goodnight.

“Think you’ll be back this way?” he said.

“Well, your friend Matt Helios seems to have big plans for me. So maybe.”

“He’s not a bad guy.”

“I didn’t say he was. On the other hand, that’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“No, I guess not.”

He keyed the ignition and the engine growled to life. He got on his helmet, raised the visor, and smiled at her.

“Let me know if you ever want to go for another ride.”

CHAPTER 24

The worse a country is, the more secrets it has.

—Matt Taibbi

Thaddeus paced the hotel room, back and forth, back and forth, feeling like a trapped animal.

He never should have let Tara go out after the upload. Protocol was hack, dump, leave. Not hack, dump, go to the mall to buy the new release of Sniper Ghost Warrior for the Xbox.

Not that he wasn’t excited to play the latest version. But he still wouldn’t have agreed if she hadn’t casually mentioned that she also wanted to pick up some massage oil . . . that they could use for anything he wanted.

The mistake he’d made was in choosing this hotel—the Pittsburgh Crowne Plaza Suites, across the street from an indoor shopping center. Tara couldn’t resist a little retail therapy. And damn if she didn’t know just how to persuade him.

He paced, trying to manage his growing agitation. How could it take so long? Ten minutes to walk over. Ten back. Five in GameStop. Five in wherever she was going to buy the oil. Five in between. And five for whatever. That was still only forty minutes, and she’d been gone for an hour.

Maybe she’d stopped for coffee. Or was lingering over some other games, or trying to decide which variety of massage oil. He would have tried calling, but using a burner just to soothe his nerves would have been another breach of protocol.

It’s fine. She just likes to fuck with you. You told her to come straight back. That practically guaranteed she would take forever.

For probably the twentieth time, he checked the feed from the spy camera he’d hidden on the windowsill at the end of the exterior hallway, standard operating procedure. The unit was powered by a rechargeable battery and had 4K resolution. Even the infrared night view was good, and right now, with the light streaming in from the window behind it, the feed to his cellphone was super clear. Other than a maid’s cart parked about halfway down to the elevators, the hallway was empty. Where the hell was she?

Five more minutes went by. Ten. He imagined hearing Kevlar-gloved knuckles pounding on the door, baritone voices yelling, FBI! Come out and keep your hands where we can see them! If agitation were a highway, he had already passed the exit for worry and was well on the way to panic.

He checked the feed again. Nothing. He almost went back to pacing, but—

There she was, turning into the hallway from the elevators, carrying a plastic shopping bag. Thank God—

A man turned with her, walking immediately behind. The man was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap with the brim pulled low, and a nylon flight jacket that made it hard to gauge his build.

Thaddeus stared at the screen, his heart suddenly galloping, a roaring in his ears.

It’s a maintenance man. Didn’t Tara complain the shower wasn’t draining fast enough?

It’s just someone staying at the hotel, walking a little close, maybe chatting her up. The body on her, who wouldn’t?

No. Maintenance men didn’t wear sunglasses indoors, and why would Tara have called for one anyway? And guys trying to chat up a girl didn’t walk behind her with their lips grimly pursed. They didn’t wear clothes that concealed their build, or maybe concealed a weapon.

FBI?

No. No way the feds would send just one guy to arrest him.

If not to arrest you—

He stared at Tara’s face. She didn’t look bored or bitchy, her primary default expressions. She looked terrified.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

All at once, he realized his planning for this kind of contingency, everything he’d imagined, had been nothing but talismans, a little boy peeking under the bed to reassure himself he was alone and having no idea at all how to deal with the monster that sprang out when he looked.

The pepper spray, get the pepper spray—

He’d bought it years ago, a two-ounce cannister, imagining how he’d launch a devastating miasma of gas into the faces of whoever and then leap to his escape over their writhing, wailing bodies. He’d jammed it into his backpack and had barely thought of it since.

Is there a shelf life? Does it even still work?

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

He checked the feed again. They were halfway down the hallway now, past the maid’s cart. Twenty feet away.

His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He snatched his backpack off the bed, unzipped it, and shook out everything inside. The laptop, routers, burner phones, cords . . . it all tumbled out.

No pepper spray.

Side compartment? Did you zip it into something?

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

No time. He needed a different plan.

He raced to the foyer, turned into it, and released the security latch on the door as quietly as his shaking hands would allow. Then he tore back into the room, searching frantically for something he could use as a weapon. Would the shower rod work as a club? A spear? What about the desk lamp?

His eyes alighted on the microwave oven. They’d used it last night—it was big and looked heavy. He imagined picking it up, throwing it—

There was a soft knock. “Lance, it’s me. Open up.”

He was so scared he was panting. He checked the feed. The guy was standing against the wall to the side of the door, where he’d be invisible to anyone looking through the peephole. He had a gun pointing at Tara.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

An idea flashed in his mind. He ran to the microwave, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door all the way back. The metal hinges broke with a loud crack! and he was suddenly holding a heavy glass and metal rectangle.

Could they hear that? He glanced at the feed. They were standing the same way. He didn’t think the sound had carried.

“The bolt is off,” he called out, shocked by the unnatural highness in his voice. “I’m in the shower.”

There was a chirp from the electronic door lock. He pressed his left side against the wall next to the entrance to the foyer and held the microwave door high, imagining slamming it down on the guy’s gun hand the second they emerged from the foyer into the room.

He heard the door open, then close. Footsteps. Only one set, which he recognized as Tara’s. The guy moved more quietly—was he in front of her? Or behind?

Behind, to keep the gun on her—

Tara emerged from the foyer. She must have seen Lance in her peripheral vision because she jerked away from him, and the guy would know now, know where Lance was standing—

With a wild yell, Lance jumped past Tara, feeling like he was moving in slow motion, and he saw the gun and sliced the microwave door down like a meat cleaver, watching it descend, aiming for the gun but it was taking forever, and the guy was turning now, the gun turning with him, and the door sliced lower, lower, and Lance saw it was going to miss the gun, oh God no—

The edge of the door caught the top of the guy’s wrist and Lance felt something shatter. The guy howled and dropped the gun—

I broke his wrist, I broke his fucking wrist—

The guy took a long step back and reached across his body with his good hand—

Knife, he’s going for a knife—

Lance raised the door and leaped forward. The guy threw up his injured arm and the edge of the door caught his wrist again and drove it into his head, knocking off the hat and the glasses. The guy shrieked and went down on one knee and Lance, terrified the guy wasn’t really hurt, that he was just playacting, brought up the door and blasted it down again, this time straight into the top of the guy’s head. Blood erupted from the guy’s scalp and he started to pitch forward, but Lance, still terrified that somehow the guy would rally, kept raining the door edge down onto his head, even after the guy was sprawled motionless on the floor.

“Lance, stop! Stop! I think he’s dead!”

It was Tara. He blinked, suddenly confused. How long had she been yelling? How long had he been swinging the door?

It was almost like he’d been asleep or something. He glanced down. What had been the guy’s head was now a sodden bird’s nest. There was a dark pool spreading on the floor and the walls were spattered, too.

He looked at the microwave door in his hand, clots of hair and bloody tissue clinging to the forward edge. There was blood on his hands, too.

“Holy shit,” he heard himself say.

CHAPTER 25

A brilliant achievement of propaganda has been to convince the population that propaganda is only an instrument of authoritarian states and not of liberal democracies.

—Glenn Diesen

Valeria’s flight wasn’t until eleven. She figured she’d still be on East Coast time and hadn’t even bothered setting an alarm, so there was an Oh, shit moment when she woke and saw light glowing around the edges of the window curtains. She glanced at the clock by the bed and was surprised she’d slept all the way to eight. Well, it was fine, she needed it, and there was still plenty of time to get to the airport. She decided to give herself a luxurious minute to just lie in bed, thinking about the night before.

After watching Brandon ride off, she’d checked her phone. There was a text from Preston: Landed. Call me when you can? She texted back, telling him the meeting with Jenkins hadn’t offered much beyond confirming that someone was trying to dig deeply into Valeria’s past, but that yes, the woman had agreed to put in a good word with Walls, the new Prince of Pentagon AI. The whole thing had left her feeling gross, she’d said; she was going straight to bed and would call in the morning. She didn’t say anything about Brandon, or about Eddie the Silicon Valley paparazzi.

The whole night had been so strange. Jenkins had left a foul taste, but Brandon had been a great palate cleanser. The beers, the conversation, the motorcycle ride with her body pressed against him and her hands in his pockets . . . and what she’d fantasized about in bed afterward, imagining what might have happened if she’d accepted his offer to walk her to the room.

She took the phone to the bathroom and checked her texts while she peed. As soon as she looked, her stomach clenched. There were several from Preston, all of the Call me as soon as you’re awake variety. A similar one from Brandon. One from Cranston, offering to meet her in New York because of “developments.” And one from Mateo: Holy shit Valeria call me.

She finished peeing, walked back into the bedroom, and called Mateo. He picked up instantly.

“What the hell is going on, Val? You were with her? In a bar? Mom is freaking out.”

Her heart started pounding. “Mateo, I had to. She contacted me, some reporter was asking her questions. How do you even know about this?”

“Mom has a Google alert.”

“For me?”

“Of course for you. And also for the woman. Who took these pictures?”

It didn’t make sense. Brandon had deleted the photos. Had they not been the only ones? Or had there been other photographers?

“I don’t know,” Valeria said. “Some paparazzi or something. Mom’s still tracking that woman?”

“You shouldn’t have met with her, Val.”

“I just told you, I had to!”

“Look, it’s not me you need to convince.”

Bullshit. But she didn’t want to get into it.

“You’re home?”

There was a beat before Mateo said, “Yeah.” He didn’t like to acknowledge that even at twenty-eight, home was his bedroom in their mother’s house.

“Is she there?”

“You don’t want to talk to her right now.”

“I do.”

“Well, she’s not going to talk to you. She needs to calm down.”

“Can you get her to call me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try, okay? Listen, I need to take care of a bunch of other things. I’ll call again as soon as I can.”

She clicked off, pulled open the curtains, and stood before the window for a moment, looking out at San Francisco Bay, the expanse a sickly green in the weak morning light. Then she opened her laptop browser and searched for Carol Jenkins. Clicked the News link. And there it was. The Preempt, featuring photos of Valeria and Jenkins at Newell’s, and of Valeria and Brandon, too. The caption read, Spotted at San Bruno Watering Hole, Celebrity Incoming Congressperson Valeria Velez Breaking Bread—And Her Promises—With Silicon Valley Defense Luminaries.

That was it. No story, just the photos and caption. Well, at least the visuals were flattering. Not the typical mouth-agape or eyes-half-shut moments opposition media tended to favor. If Eddie had somehow tricked them, maybe he felt guilty and sold only the better shots.

Brandon picked up after half a ring. “Have you seen?”

“The Preempt. I guess you have a Google alert for your name, too.”

“For all the principals in the company. Valeria. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I must have missed something on his phone. Some background app that automatically uploads photos to a separate folder in the cloud.”

“If you hadn’t spotted him, it would have happened anyway.”

“Yeah, but I did spot him.” There was a pause, then he added, “Can I help somehow?”

“Can you get my mother a big dose of Valium?”

He didn’t laugh. “If you haven’t talked to Preston yet—”

“I haven’t, but I texted him last night. Didn’t mention that I was with you. Just Jenkins.”

“Shit.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” She wished she felt as confident as she thought she sounded.

“I wonder if Cliff Brite will bring it up tonight,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“But look, Dunne seems pretty savvy about turning setbacks into opportunities. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas for how to handle this. I have a few myself, if you want to hear them.”

She needed help from somewhere. And she didn’t know what she could expect from Preston.

“Sure,” she said.

“You know the Preempt. They’re big on national defense, which is why they’re trying to turn this into a story. They want to make you look like a hypocrite.”

“Yeah, we talked about this.”

“Don’t fight it. Own it. ‘Anyone who thinks I’m soft on defense is soft in the head,’ that kind of thing. You don’t believe in the nonsense that we shouldn’t talk to Americans we don’t agree with. The Americans we don’t agree with are the ones we should be talking to the most. You promised to fight like hell for your constituents and for your country, and that’s exactly what you’re doing. And anyone who has a problem with that can kiss your ass.”

She couldn’t help being touched at how angry he was on her behalf. “If you get bored with Dendrite, want a job as speechwriter?”

He laughed. “Just doing what I learned from the spooks in Afghanistan—deny everything, admit nothing, make counteraccusations.”

“Yeah, Preston’s big on counterpunching, too. And . . . I better call him.”

“Let me know if I can help. I mean it.”

“I will. Thanks, Brandon.”

She clicked off and called Preston.

Only half a ring again, then, “Hey.”

Everyone must have been just staring at their phones, waiting. His tone was notably neutral.

She sighed. “You saw the photos?”

“I see everything about you in the news.”

“Pres, I’m sorry. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“I felt gross from meeting Jenkins. It just dredged up a lot of shit. I didn’t want to be alone thinking about it, so I called Brandon. I don’t know anyone else around here. We had a beer and that was it. And I didn’t tell you because of all that stuff about whether you were jealous, and I just . . . it was dumb. I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause. He said, “Well, I was jealous. And maybe still am, a little.”

“You don’t have anything to be jealous about.”

“Okay. And . . . I’m sorry meeting Jenkins was gross.”

She smiled. With everything else he must have been struggling with, it was incredible he’d find space to feel bad about Jenkins.

“It was the right advice, Pres. I’m glad you pushed me.”

“Let’s talk about all the rest when we have time. For now, the bigger outlets are going to try to amplify the story. I don’t think you should say anything in the way of explanation or apology. Of course you’re talking to people you disagree with—what are you supposed to do, shun them? You’re about building bridges, not blowing them up.”

For a second, she was overwhelmed at how good he was to her. She knew he was upset. Probably his imagination had been serving up nonstop lurid images of what she and Brandon must have been doing after they’d left the bar, a private porn reel of torment. Yet he had instantly set all that aside to focus on what would be best for her.

And it wasn’t just personal stuff in the mix. It was politics, too. Preston hated that she was open to the views of people like Brandon and Helios and Dunne. He thought they were all trying to seduce and suborn her, and saw his role at least in part as protecting her from temptation.

Of course, it could be hard to tell where the political ended and the personal began. It was almost funny, how much politics was like high school. Filled with friends guarding their relationships, anxious about getting traded in for a new crowd. And it was funny too how closely Preston’s advice tracked Brandon’s. Maybe in another universe, they would have gotten along.

Although probably not.

“I agree,” she said. “And thanks, Pres.”

“Listen, I’m already getting inquiries from the press. I haven’t responded to any of them. I think that’s the right approach.”

“I agree. Let them think we’re scared of the story. That there’s blood in the water.”

“A hundred percent. And if for any reason Brite brings it up on Brite Night, you can defuse it in front of a friendly crowd.”

She wanted to share his confidence about Brite and Brite Night. But she still wasn’t sure.

“Anyway,” he said. “We should have plenty of time to get you to the studio. Your flight lands at JFK at seven forty-two. A driver will be waiting to take you to the Sheraton Times Square, which is a one-minute walk from the studio. I’ll already be checked in. Do you want me to bring any clothes . . . ?”

“No, I’ll just go with what I wore at Dendrite.”

“The pink one? Zara?”

The Zara outfit was a single black-button fitted blazer with sharp lapels and slacks with a slight flare. She’d worn it with a silk blouse for the meeting at Dendrite, but she’d lose the blouse for Brite Night, where a slightly sexier look would be the way to go. On a whim she’d thrown a gold necklace, gold hoop earrings, and black heels in her suitcase, and thank God because those would all be perfect. But she didn’t need to explain the subtleties to Preston. He wouldn’t really get it.

“Yeah, the Zara.”

“I love that outfit. Such a great contrast with your hair and skin. Makes it look like you’re not remotely trying to be sexy, you just can’t help it.”

She smiled. Maybe he did get it.

“Listen,” she said, “I don’t think you really need to take the train all the way to New York just for a night. I take office in less than two months, we still have so much D.C. transition work to do.”

“It’s under control.”

“What about those apartments you were looking at? Weren’t there other potential renters? I don’t want to lose a good place by waiting too long.”

“I could just put someone else from the team on it.”

“You really trust someone else to know which apartment we’d like?”

“I mean . . . I don’t know, it just seems weird, you going all alone. You don’t think you’ll need help with anything? Especially with that Preempt bullshit happening the same day you have this big television appearance . . .”

She gave him a little laugh. “I’m not that important, Pres. I don’t need an entourage. At least not yet.”

“Okay.”

Shit, he sounded hurt.

“Look, we can talk, we can strategize, over the phone. We’ll have plenty of time.”

“Okay.”

“Pres, come on.”

“It’s all good.”

She sighed. “You’re the best. You know that.”

“Just doing my job.”

She didn’t want it to be just his job. But . . . she couldn’t deal with that right now.

“There’s one problem,” she said. “I need to see my mother first.”

“In Pacoima?”

“Yeah. I talked to my brother and she’s freaking out.”

“Can’t you just call her?”

“Right now she won’t even talk to me.”

“Why are you so sure she’ll talk to you in person?”

“I’m not. But I have to try.”

“How are you going to get to Pacoima and still be in New York in time for the show?”

“Get me a list of flights from LAX to New York. I won’t be on camera before midnight, right? There’s time.”

“Val, this story is like fire. It could hurt you. Or you can take the Brite Night opportunity to turn it to your advantage. But if you don’t contain it now, it’ll spread.”

Ordinarily he talked in terms of we, not you. Another thing she had to push away and would deal with later.

“I get it,” she said. “If we can’t make it work, we won’t. Look, I told you, we never really talked about all the shit with my father leaving. What it did to my mother. So I don’t think you understand, you can’t fully appreciate, what’s going on right now.”

There was a pause. He said, “I’ll text you a list of flights.”

It wasn’t like him to give in so easily. Another thing she’d have to think about later. “Thank you,” she said, and clicked off.

She used her laptop to check for flights. She thought she’d easily be able to get something from San Francisco to Burbank, but the only flights that left anytime soon were full. San Jose and even Oakland were no better.

She called Brandon. “Hey,” she said. “You said you wanted to help?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can you fly me to Pacoima?”

“When?”

“Now.”

There was a pause. He said, “Let me make sure no one else is using my plane. Or, if they are, that there’s another available.”

“One other thing. After Pacoima, I need to get right to LAX. In traffic that would be at least an hour, maybe even two. Can you do that, too?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call you back.”

It took him three minutes. “When can you be at Palo Alto Airport?”

“Probably in a half hour.”

“Have the driver drop you off at the terminal. I’ll be waiting.”

CHAPTER 26

The nation must to a degree take it on faith that we, too, are honorable men, devoted to her service.

—Director of Central Intelligence Richard Helms

Tara was starting to hyperventilate. “Lance, you . . . you killed him!”

Lance looked at her. “He was going to kill us! Right?”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring at the guy. The body.

“Tara. Look at me. Look at me!”

She did.

“What happened? Did he threaten you? Did he say anything? Who was he?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t even see him. He . . . he got on the elevator with me, when I came back.” She glanced at the bag she was holding. “I went to the mall and I bought . . . I bought the game. Sniper Ghost Warrior. And massage oil. And . . . oh, God . . .”

“Why did you take so long?”

“I don’t know, I just . . . it was good to be out. Around other people. Oh God, oh my God . . .”

“What did he say to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who sent him? How did he know we were here?”

“He just . . . when the elevator doors closed, he took out a gun. He knew my name. He . . .”

Fuck. “Your name?”

“He said, ‘I’m not here for you, Tara. I’m here for Lance.’”

“What else?”

“It was . . . ‘If you don’t do as I say, I’ll kill you both.’”

Lance sensed this was an edited version and that the guy had gone further. Maybe even an explicit, Get me into the room and I’ll let you live. She would have been dumb to believe it. Or desperate. But he couldn’t really blame her. If the shoe had been on the other foot, would he have done the same?

“Did he say how he tracked us?”

“No. Nothing.”

He didn’t think she was lying. What was the guy going to say? Hi, I’m Bob, I’ll be your assassin today. Oh, and by the way, let me tell you all about the faction that sent me and how I managed to find you.

But how had he found them? They’d been so careful. They drove a used car he’d bought for cash off a lot in Milwaukee—a Jeep Grand Cherokee, one of the most popular vehicles in America, this one a nice, forgettable gray. He used several different top-flight counterfeit IDs and debit cards for hotels, and cash for everything else. He always had Tara wait in the car while he checked in, and though he didn’t think his face was particularly memorable, he was always careful to obscure his features just in case a clerk had been watching the news—baseball caps, eyewear, even fake facial hair. They changed out their phones every day. Uploaded information via a satellite router. They barely went out except for necessities.

Maybe Pittsburgh itself was the mistake. Proximity to that fucking shopping mall, Tara couldn’t resist.

No, that wasn’t it. Tara had gone out just over an hour earlier, they couldn’t have mobilized someone that fast. Unless . . .

How had he picked Pittsburgh? The same way he’d picked the others—basically at random. Schaumburg, Indianapolis, Kentucky . . . they were moving east for the most part, with jumps of anywhere from six to ten hours of driving. But those were huge variables, too big to predict. Especially combined with all his other precautions.

He paused, thinking combined.

Every one of his security procedures was solid. He knew that. But in a mosaic . . .

No. The data would be too much. Nobody would be able put it together.

No body. But . . . an AI?

He thought of Pittsburgh again. After Lexington, he’d been considering Nashville, Memphis, even Little Rock. But he wound up gravitating northeast. He didn’t really know the south. Hadn’t spent much time there. North was just more comfortable.

Could an AI have started to understand his preferences? With enough data to learn from . . . maybe. If it could see things about him he himself wasn’t consciously aware of, it might use that awareness to anticipate his next move before he’d even decided on it. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough to get a precise location, but combine an AI’s insights with license plate readers, records of hotel check-ins using debit cards, cash transactions . . .

An image came to him—a fish, darting from behind a coral outcropping, then concealing itself in some seaweed, even burrowing into the sand. Thinking a predator will never be able to spot it.

The camera pulls back. The fish is in a fishbowl.

God. It was enough to make you question the very notion of free will.

He squatted and went through the guy’s pockets, grimacing. He found a knife but nothing else. Weirdly, the knife made him feel better. The guy really had been intent on killing them.

“Lance,” Tara said. She sounded close to tears. “This is bad.”

He looked at her. He’d never thought of himself as a good person, but he’d always tried to do the right thing. And maybe there was still a chance. Before they stopped him.

“They don’t want you,” he said. “Not really. It’s about me. But if we’re together when they come for me? They’ll kill you, too.”

She pressed a hand over her mouth and whimpered.

He smiled to show her it was okay. “I know he said he’d let you go. But he was lying. He wouldn’t have left a witness. It’ll be the same the next time they catch up with us. And I don’t know if I can figure out how to stop them. Not if they got to us now.”

She shook her head.

“I doubt this guy had a partner,” he went on. “If he did, the partner would have been with him.”

“What are you saying?”

“You can walk out of here. No one’s going to be waiting. It’ll be okay. Go back to the shopping mall. Stay in a crowded place. Call a real reporter. Someone at Drop Site News. Or the Freedom of the Press Foundation. Tell them what happened. Tell them the truth about this morning. And tell them you’re turning yourself in to the Pittsburgh police.”

“What?”

“The local police. Not the feds. And tell the police you’ve told reporters. That . . . should be enough to protect you.”

The pause was because at the last second, he’d upgraded might to should. He hoped he was right.

“I don’t want to go to jail!”

“I don’t want you to die.”

She said nothing.

“I don’t think you’re going to jail,” he said. “You didn’t know what I was doing. Not the particulars. You weren’t part of it. You were just my girlfriend, along for the ride.”

“But I was part of it.”

“No. You weren’t. You were never part of it. Remember that. And if they take me alive, that’s what I’ll tell them, too.”

“Lance . . .”

“You need to go. Both of us do.”

She hesitated for a moment, then ran to the desk, where she’d left her backpack. She grabbed it and ran back. They stood for an awkward moment, just looking at each other. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

She handed him the shopping bag. “Here. Sniper Ghost Warrior. And . . . the massage oil. I wasn’t just saying that so you’d let me go to the mall.”

He gave her a wan smile. “I wish we could have used it.”

“Me, too.”

She stepped past the body. Opened the door.

And then she was gone.

CHAPTER 27

If voting changed anything, they wouldn’t allow it.

—Unknown

Valeria squinted against the morning sun, watching the traffic-choked highways below getting smaller and smaller.

She listened through the noise-cancelling headset as Brandon engaged in some kind of pilot talk with the Palo Alto Airport ground people. He’d told her it would be like this for takeoff and landing, and that she could turn off the reception if she wanted. But she’d never been in a private plane and was curious about everything. She couldn’t deny that it was a lot of fun—exciting and exclusive and obviously efficient for anyone pressed for time.

About ten minutes in, when the pilot stuff was over, Brandon said through the headset, “How’s the trip so far?”

“Well, it’s no Ducati, but it’s not bad.”

He laughed. “How long will you want me on the ground?”

“An hour at most. My flight from LAX leaves at 1:45.”

Preston had switched her to the new flight. He’d asked if she also needed to get from the Bay Area to Pacoima. She’d texted back that she already took care of it. He hadn’t asked anything else, which was good. She didn’t want to tell him Brandon was flying her. Things were tense enough.

“It’s a five-minute flight from Whiteman in Pacoima to LAX,” Brandon said. “Should be okay, but much longer than an hour on the ground and you’ll be cutting it close.”

“It doesn’t matter. If I can’t get this sorted out in an hour, a little more time one way or the other won’t make a difference.”

“Roger that. If you don’t mind my asking, is this thing politics? Or personal?”

As she had in the bar, she wound up telling him more than she’d intended, beginning with Josie’s eruption over the photos. And he shared a few things, too. How demanding his father could be, and how joining the Navy was in part a rebellion, on Brandon’s part and then on Ryan’s, too. Getting called twinkie and boiled egg as a kid because of his mixed race—the first meaning yellow on the outside, white on the inside, the second meaning the opposite. His fears about Dendrite’s technology being used in ways he might not want, which he admitted was part of why he’d gotten into it a bit with Preston—because he knew Preston had a point. There was something weirdly intimate about hearing his voice directly in her ears over the background whine of the plane’s engine, and knowing he was hearing hers the same way. It felt like sharing a secret.

By the time they were close to Pacoima and he was back to talking pilot stuff with the people on the ground, she realized he knew more about her family’s past than she’d ever told Preston. She decided that was one more thing to file under To be dealt with later.

CHAPTER 28

Power always thinks it has a great soul.

—John Adams

She’d called Mateo before taking off, and there he was as she walked off the tarmac, standing alongside the 2002 burgundy Chevy Malibu he’d bought ten years earlier. It didn’t look like much, but he kept it running beautifully. More skills learned from Héctor, an artifact from a long-ago life.

However pissed he might have been over the circumstances, at the sight of her he broke into his irrepressible grin and lifted her off the ground with a hug. He’d been taller than she was since he turned twelve.

“Congress Lady,” he said, as he set her down. “You have no idea how much crazy you just caused.”

“God, please don’t call me Congress Lady.”

He laughed. “Hey, somebody’s gotta give you a hard time. Probably everyone else is going to snap into line now.”

“Yeah? Well, you should let them know. Seems they haven’t gotten the memo.”

He laughed again. “Listen, I know I already said it a hundred times, but . . . I’m really proud of you, Val. Mom is, too, although maybe not right this minute.”

She tousled his hair, enjoying playing the big sister again. “We’ll be okay.”

He bobbed away from the hair tousle, moving like the boxer he’d been before a detached retina ended his hopes of going pro. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her like this since . . . you know. That night.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.” He watched as Brandon’s plane taxied off the runway, the blue and white fuselage gleaming in the morning sun. “Whose plane is that, anyway?”

“Just a guy I’m going to be working with on some legislative stuff.”

“He owns his own plane?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow. Moving up in the world.”

Maybe he was still just giving her a hard time. But she didn’t need the judgment right then. Or the jealousy.

“Look, I’m cutting it close already, so . . .”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about me, I’ve got tons of time. I had to call in sick to be your driver, you know?”

He worked at a Best Buy in Burbank. He was so good with engines, she always told him he should open his own garage. But the same maternal pressure that drove Valeria to overachieve had always had the opposite effect on Mateo.

“I really appreciate it, Matty.” It was her childhood nickname for him.

“Come on,” he said. “No one calls me that anymore.”

“I get to. I’m a Congress Lady, remember?”

“Hah-hah.”

“Can we go see Mom?”

He blew out a long breath. “We can try.”

CHAPTER 29

Hoped for better, turned out as always.

—Viktor Chernomyrdin

Josie was still cleaning houses, though she had cut back to five days a week from seven. Before going off to college, Valeria had helped her on weekends. Most homeowners didn’t want the maid around on their days off, but Josie was so thorough, and especially with Valeria’s help so efficient, people would settle for a Saturday or Sunday if that’s what it took to get their house spit-shined by the perfectionist mother-daughter duo.

Today Josie was in Porter Ranch, a rich suburb about a fifteen-minute drive from Pacoima straddling the southern border of the 27th District Valeria would soon represent. Mateo hadn’t known where she was working; he’d called and pretended some house insurance thing had come in the mail and he needed her to sign it. He hadn’t said anything about Valeria. He was worried that if he did, Josie might not have revealed her whereabouts. They both hoped the fait accompli wouldn’t make her even angrier, but it didn’t seem they had much choice.

They parked in front of one of those austere, bright white contemporaries that were spreading like an invasive species through southern California, then headed up a stone path cutting through a lush lawn. It was weirdly hot for a November morning, the path shadeless, the glare off the house almost blinding.

On the porch, Valeria made sure to stand well to the side of the camera bell so Josie wouldn’t see her. She hated how ridiculous these procedures were, and wondered whether other people were put through similar nonsense by their parents. Probably, she decided. They just didn’t like to talk about it. She certainly didn’t.

Mateo rang the bell. Valeria could hear the chime echoing inside, along with another sound she remembered well: the roar of a high-end vacuum. She had read somewhere that vacuums didn’t need to be so loud, but that consumers equated noise with effectiveness, and manufacturers responded accordingly.

The noise of the vacuum died. Valeria was surprised to feel her heart beating hard. It was ridiculous, more ridiculous than her anxiety before meeting Jenkins. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, how could she be scared to face her own mother?

A lock clacked and the door was pulled open. She heard Josie say, “So what’s this insurance thing that couldn’t wait until tonight?”

Valeria inhaled deeply and stepped in front of the door. “Hey, Mom.”

Josie’s mouth dropped open. For a second, a kaleidoscope of emotions seemed at war in her face—hurt and joy and pride and rage.

But only for that second, and then the rage won out. She snapped her head toward Mateo.

“You think this is funny?”

Mateo shook his head. “No, Ma, I just—”

Josie’s head snapped back to Valeria. “You’re a liar. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie, Mom, I—”

“You sat down with that woman? Drank with her? Toasted with her? Did you? Did you toast with her?”

“No, Mom. She doesn’t even drink.”

Josie seemed not to hear. “She destroyed our family. And you—”

“A reporter called her. Asking questions about us. I needed to know who. And why.”

Josie’s expression mutated from disgust to horror. “It wasn’t enough what she did to us? Now she’s going to make it front-page news?”

“She didn’t tell them anything. She’s not trying to hurt us.”

Josie gave a short, hysterical laugh. “Not trying to hurt us! So generous of her! And now you’re defending her?”

Mateo cleared his throat. “Ma—”

Josie pointed a finger at him so fast it might have been a switchblade. “I don’t want to hear it from you, Mr. ‘You need to sign some insurance papers.’”

Mateo fell silent. Valeria didn’t blame him. When Josie was in a state, the smartest course was just to wait it out. No sense fighting a hurricane.

The problem was, a hurricane could last for days. Valeria had less than an hour.

“Mom. I’m not defending her.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Trying to explain. Why do you think I flew down here? Some photographer took those pictures and—”

“There’s nothing to explain. This is betrayal, Valeria. You betrayed us.”

Valeria could feel the blood rush to her face. She’d been called traitor plenty of times during the campaign, just because she wanted to divert less money to war. She didn’t have to put up with the same bullshit from her own mother.

“I didn’t betray anyone. I’m not the one who left. Dad did.”

“How can you look me in the eye and say—”

“Mom! You said it yourself! The night he told us, you were screaming it, remember? ‘Tell them you’re abandoning them! Abandoning your family! For a fucking white puta you’ve been fucking for years!’ Remember?”

Mateo backed off the porch and started walking unsteadily toward the car. And suddenly it was that night again, a head-on collision with something Valeria thought was fifteen years in the rearview.

She remembered something she’d heard once: Trauma is like time travel. It makes the past always now.

But this time was different. This time she wasn’t going to just give in.

Josie’s nostrils flared with her breathing. “Yes, he abandoned us. Abandoned us for her!”

“What difference does it make? It was his decision!”

Josie pointed a finger at her. “I told you to never see that woman. You promised me you wouldn’t. You promised. That is betrayal.”

Valeria stared at her, breathing hard, trying to control her own fury. To extract that kind of promise from a confused, anguished teenager, and then to try to enforce it forever, no matter what . . .

She wanted to scream, Why do you think Dad was so unhappy at home? Why do you think he left you? Was it really everyone else’s fault? Or maybe did it have something to do with his relationship with his wife?

But that would turn a battle into a nuclear war. It would be unforgiveable. Literally.

“I don’t care what you pressured me into saying when I was fifteen years old,” she said, as evenly as she could manage. “If someone is doing something. Digging for dirt. Trying to hurt me politically. I will do what I need to do to neutralize it. And you will have to deal with that. Get a therapist, Mom. Try meditation. It’s been years. Stop taking your shit out on me. And on Mateo.”

Josie’s face was so red it was almost purple. Tears sprang to her eyes.

“After all I’ve done for you,” she said, her voice close to a hiss. “Sacrificed for you . . .”

“And I’m grateful, Mom. I always will be. But not all of it was for me. Some of it was you using me. To get back at Dad. Okay?”

Josie shook her head. She swiped her fingers under one eye, then the other. Then she straightened, the quintessence of wounded dignity. Valeria knew what was coming would be bad, and tried to brace herself.

“You are not my daughter,” Josie said. No anger in her tone. A simple statement of fact. She turned, went back in the house, and closed the door behind her.

Valeria stood on the porch, frozen. She saw Mateo on the sidewalk, facing away, his head in his hands. After a moment, she heard the vacuum again.

She walked back to the car, too shocked even to cry.

CHAPTER 30

Power is a ratchet.

—Unknown

On the ride back to Pacoima, Valeria and Mateo barely spoke.

She couldn’t believe what Josie had said to her. Maybe she’d calm down, as she eventually always did. She’d been in such a state, she might not even remember. Or, if she did remember, she’d probably deny it.

But still. Just to utter such a thing.

When Valeria was a kid, some mean girls had liked to tease her about her teeth. Sticks and stones may break my bones, Josie had assured her. But words can never harm me.

Had there ever been a greater lie told by parents to their children?

Probably not. But at least for most kids, the parents who gave that bullshit advice didn’t themselves go on to definitively disprove it.

She glanced at Mateo. She felt guilty for retraumatizing him. Part of her wanted to apologize. But apologize for what? Breaking an ancient promise she never should have been coerced into giving in the first place? She wasn’t a teenager anymore. She had grown up. Josie needed to do the same.

After ten minutes of silence, Valeria said, “You all right?”

He shook his head. “I will be when I get home, and smoke the fattest blunt you ever heard of.”

She chuckled. “Wish I could join you.”

He didn’t answer, not even some crack about how Congress Ladies shouldn’t be smoking weed. She realized he must really have wanted to be alone.

Or at least not with her.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Mateo.”

He shrugged. “You got your picture taken.”

“That was bad luck. And if Mom weren’t still obsessing over the past, it wouldn’t even have mattered.”

“Maybe. But Val . . . you came for a quick visit, and now you’re flying away again. I’m the one who has to live with the damage.”

Then move out, she wanted to say. Get your own place. Maybe Mom wouldn’t be so cavalier about disowning one child if she didn’t have her claws so deep in the other.

She suppressed the urge. “What would you have done?”

“Honestly? I wouldn’t meet her. Not for anything.”

“Well, I’m playing for different stakes, okay? I have enemies. I can’t just let them dig up shit from my past and distort it anyway they want.”

“If they’re going to distort it, there’s nothing you can do anyway, right?”

She said nothing, not wanting to acknowledge the point. Mateo had always been smart. Maybe smarter than she was. He just didn’t know what to do with it.

At the airport, he got out of the car to say goodbye. This time the hug was more restrained.

“Let me know how things go,” she said. “Okay?”

He nodded. “If you don’t hear from me, call the president. You can do that now, right?”

Maybe the joke was a peace offering. But she didn’t feel like laughing.

CHAPTER 31

The limits of debate in this country are set before the debate begins.

—George Carlin

As she walked toward the terminal, Valeria called Cranston. “Sorry it took me a while to respond,” she said. “Crazy day.”

“I thought you might want to talk.”

“I really appreciate it. But I’m still a little pressed—can I call you while I’m waiting to take off from LAX?”

“Of course. Or if you’d rather, I’ll pick you up when you land and we can talk on the way to wherever you’re staying. Telephone and Zoom calls are better than text messaging, but face-to-face always produces the best ideas, don’t you agree? And when someone asks, ‘Don’t you agree,’ it makes it harder for the other person to disagree.”

It was surprisingly good to hear his voice, and to be exposed again to his habit of explaining his verbal tactics at the same time he was deploying them.

“You’re in New York?” she said, not sure if she wanted to commit to whatever he was proposing.

“Yes. I’ll be in the audience tonight.”

“For Brite Night?”

“Yes.”

“To see me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m . . . thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I appreciate the offer to drive, but I don’t want to put you out.”

“I know you’re getting good advice from Preston and from Fillian. Of course, Preston is naïve and Fillian is jaded. Those are qualities that can keep people from seeing clearly.”

“And you’re able to see clearly?”

“Compared to normal people. My parents used to tell me it was a superpower.”

“Well, it’s good to have a superpower.”

“It can be.”

She was tempted, but . . .

“I’ve noticed how clearly you see things,” she said. “But . . . I don’t know if I can afford to retain you, Montie. My campaign was running on fumes at the end. I don’t have the kind of cash Fillian does. Did.”

“One way I could respond to your concern would be to assure you that you can afford me, or that I’m worth it, or something along those lines. But then the dynamic would be, you claim you can’t, I claim you can, maybe the right answer is somewhere in the middle. So it’s more effective for me to take the opposite position, which would entail asking, Can you really afford not to retain me? Then the middle position would be more favorable to me.”

She remembered Fillian’s text: This just means he likes you. But still she didn’t know quite how to respond.

“But none of that is relevant now,” he said. “You’ll want to. You’ll see you need to. That’s why I’m always comfortable with Try before you buy. Which, by the way, resonates because it rhymes. I could compare myself to the way big tobacco sent free cigarettes to GIs during World War Two, knowing the soldiers would become addicted and return home as paying customers. But tobacco is known as a harmful product, so the analogy would be unhelpful. A better approach would be the puppy-dog principle. Store owners always send the puppy off with a guaranteed If you don’t like the puppy, just bring him back. The guarantee is easy because the family always falls in love with the puppy.”

It was the oddest thing. There was no boastfulness in his tone. He might have been discussing why a beetle’s exoskeleton is hard, or why water boils at two hundred twelve degrees. It was just . . . information to him. Axioms.

“You really don’t mind?” she said. “I mean . . . doing this for free?”

“Not at all. I enjoy discussing strategy. Besides, I’m sure eventually you’ll pay for it.”

CHAPTER 32

We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality.

—Karl Rove

Brandon was inside the terminal, talking on his cellphone. He nodded as she approached and wrapped up the call. “That didn’t take long,” he said.

His tone was a little tentative. She wondered if he’d seen something in her expression.

She gave him a slightly theatrical grimace. “Repairs take forever. Disasters happen fast.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I feel like I got you to fly me down here for nothing.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I got to spend time with you.”

And all of a sudden, she felt tears threaten. She must have been even more upset than she realized. For a weird moment, she wanted to reach out and touch his face.

She waited until she had it under control. “You know what I think?”

He shook his head.

“I think family is like nerve endings. It can give you the best feelings. Or the fucking worst.”

He smiled. “Probably if it couldn’t also give you the worst, it wouldn’t be able to give you the other.”

“I guess. But my nerve endings . . . I think they’re a little crazier than most.”

They were quiet for a moment. He said, “You going to be okay on the show tonight?”

She thought of one of Héctor’s sayings: No matter how it goes, afterward you raise your gloves like you won.

“I think so. It’s a long flight. Time to decompress.”

“Preston going to be there?”

“He’s got too much to take care of in Washington. I have someone else picking me up at the airport.”

“You know I’d fly you myself, but the Cirrus doesn’t have that range.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking. “I think I already wasted enough of your time today.”

“I told you. It wasn’t a waste. By the way, that was my brother I was talking to. Ryan. Have you heard the news about Lance Thaddeus?”

“What news?”

“He killed someone.”

She didn’t get it. Every establishment media story about Thaddeus came complete with the government’s standard-issue grave damage to national security and blood on his hands proclamations. But this sounded different.

“Killed someone? You mean, his leaks got someone killed?”

“No, I mean killed as with a blunt object. Supposedly. I don’t know if it’ll come up on the show, but you were pretty vocal in the campaign about how America needs less secrecy and more transparency, so I wouldn’t be surprised. I can brief you in the air on what I learned from Ryan. We think it sounds . . . dubious.”

While they waited to take off, she used her phone to find the story. She found herself agreeing with Brandon and Ryan—something wasn’t right.

Earlier today Lance Thaddeus murdered an agent affiliated with the FBI who was attempting to track the fugitive for apprehension, officials say. Following a struggle that ensued when the agent presented his credentials, Thaddeus overpowered the agent and beat him to death with a blunt instrument. The agent received as many as a dozen blows to the head, fracturing his skull and leaving his face almost unrecognizable. The government is offering a ten-million-dollar reward for information leading to Thaddeus’s arrest. He is now wanted for murder in addition to numerous violations of the Espionage Act and is presumed armed and dangerous.

Once they were in the air and Brandon was done talking to the people on the ground, she said through the headset, “The Thaddeus thing. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Agreed.”

“How would anyone know a detail like the agent was ‘overpowered’? Or that he presented his credentials? And what does that even mean, ‘an agent affiliated with the FBI’?”

“Yeah, I think they said ‘agent’ three or four times. People are supposed to come away thinking Thaddeus killed an FBI agent.”

She thought about the way the government had repeated Saddam Hussein again and again in the same sentence with al Qaeda. People started believing Hussein had been involved with Nine-Eleven, just by syntactical osmosis.

“Well, who did he kill?”

“Sounds like a contractor. Or in this case, a contract killer.”

“Are you serious?”

“Not all guys like me go on to found startups. Some make themselves available as cut-outs. For work that needs to be deniable. But this guy sounds like something a little different.”

“Why do you say?”

“If what Ryan is hearing is true, Thaddeus knocked the guy’s gun out of his hand by hitting him in the wrist. If someone is handling a pistol properly while closing on a target, that’s almost impossible. Operators know if you can touch it, you can take it, so the gun’s going to be tight to your chest, not held away from your body like you see in the movies. Even if you do extend your arm, you wouldn’t do it that close to the target. Beyond which, come on, Thaddeus doesn’t have any training or experience. I doubt he was ever even in a fistfight.”

“So this contractor wasn’t a former SEAL.”

“Or Delta, or any other former SpecOps.”

“What then?”

“My guess is former FBI.”

“Why?”

“FBI tactics are mostly about the deployment of overwhelming force. Raiding a house with a half dozen agents wearing body armor and carrying battering rams. Solo hunting is a different realm.”

“But . . . why would the FBI use an inexperienced assassin?”

“I doubt the FBI chose this guy. More likely CIA.”

“Why?”

“Parsimony. Assassinations are mostly run by CIA. But whoever was running the operation, they’d deploy someone with an existing FBI connection.”

“Because . . . ?”

“The FBI is the agency tasked with apprehending Thaddeus, so you’d want someone whose involvement is congruent with a law enforcement operation. In case there are ever questions. In case something goes wrong.”

It was unnerving, how much he seemed to know about these things, and how matter-of-fact he was in explaining.

“On top of which,” he went on, “they probably didn’t think they needed the A-team. Thaddeus is a civilian, not some kind of hard target.”

“God. Everyone is going to believe Thaddeus murdered an FBI agent.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s going to ask questions now if this armed-and-dangerous desperado is killed in a gunfight? A few ‘conspiracy theorists,’ maybe, but that’s it. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it.”

She didn’t agree about Thaddeus deserving it. And if Brandon had been someone else, she might have launched into a speech about the importance of due process and the rule of law.

“I still don’t get it,” she said. “They were going to just . . . execute him? Everyone would know.”

“That’s not a bug. It’s a feature. They deny it, but with a wink. Like when America blew up Russia’s Nord Stream pipeline.”

“I can’t believe it works like this.”

“Yeah, you’re probably about to get an education. Or maybe not. Sometimes I think the things I knew when I was active duty? Congress doesn’t want to hear about. People don’t like ignorance only because it’s bliss. Sometimes they like it because it’s useful.”

CHAPTER 33

By definition, establishments believe in propping up the existing order. Members of the ruling class have a vested interest in keeping things pretty much the way they are. Safeguarding the status quo, protecting traditional institutions, can be healthy and useful, stabilizing and reassuring.

—Evan Thomas, Newsweek

Cranston was on his fifth circuit of the terminal, the wipers pumping furiously against the rain, when he saw Valeria coming out through the arrivals exit. He pulled to the curb under the overhang and unlocked the doors.

She threw her bag in back and got in. “Montie. Thanks so much again for doing this.”

He noticed she was shivering. “I think the seats are heated,” he said. “See the button on the console? With the image denoting heat waves?”

She laughed and clicked the button, then pulled on her seatbelt. “I know what a seat warmer icon looks like. Is this not your car?”

He pressed the turning signal and pulled out. Immediately rain began spattering on the windshield again. “It’s a rental.”

“Montie, this is too much.”

“No, it’s just the right amount. I thought about calling a rideshare, but so many have video cameras installed. They’re not good places for private conversations.”

He realized he hadn’t made any small talk. “Uh, did you have a good flight?”

“It was fine. Wish I’d thought to bring a jacket. I wasn’t expecting to come straight from the Bay Area.”

“I have an extra. You can borrow it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Fillian told me about Sting Magazine. That’s why I was hoping we could talk. Plus there were those photographs in the Preempt this morning. You see, when a person is expecting a friendly reception and instead receives a hostile one, it can take a long time to shift to more appropriate tactics. Expectations are important to the humans, even determinative of their experiences.”

She didn’t answer. He could tell his diction had confused her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I sometimes think of people not as humans but as the humans. The way a Martian would think of them. The word the creates distance but also implies a degree of shared knowledge. I find this useful, but sometimes I forget the humans can find it off-putting.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Have you been . . . thinking of them that way for a long time?”

He followed the Van Wyck Expressway as it became I-678. The steady patter of rain on the hood of the car was soothing.

“You have a gentle tone when you ask questions,” he said. “It makes me comfortable talking to you. I’m sure it makes other people comfortable, too.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of people as the humans for as long as I can remember.”

“Was that another superpower?”

“Yes. But my parents taught me not to talk that way except with them because it would make the humans uncomfortable.”

“Your parents sound like . . . really good parents.”

“They always told me I made them proud.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by obliquely indicating that they passed away.”

He knew to use passed away instead of died. The humans didn’t like to talk about death, and when they couldn’t avoid the topic preferred euphemisms. Even passed away was being supplanted by passed. Cranston didn’t understand this delicacy. After all, along with birth, death was the most universal human experience, so it seemed strange to try to deny it. But ultimately he was more concerned with the facts of human stimulus and response than he was with their underlying mechanisms. What mattered about a car, after all, was that you could drive it, not the inner workings of the steering wheel.

“It’s okay,” she said. “My dad died when I was a teenager. It’s . . . a hard thing.”

The navigation app suggested he get off I-678 and use North Conduit Avenue, instead. Highway traffic must have been bad.

“Do you mind if I keep calling them the humans?” he said, signaling right and moving into the exit lane. “I don’t usually get to do it out loud.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Regarding expectations determining how the humans experience things. It’s why people want to know what kind of movie they’re going to. If they expect a comedy, they’re more prone to laugh. If it’s a drama, they’re more prone to cry. If they don’t know, or if they’re expecting something different, they’ll have trouble enjoying the movie no matter what it is.”

She didn’t respond. He hoped he hadn’t made her uncomfortable. He listened to the sound of the car’s tires on the wet pavement, the thump-thump, thump-thump of the wipers sluicing away rain.

“Before a course is served,” she said. “We want to know if it’s savory or sweet. If we’re miscued, we might spit something out even if it would otherwise have tasted good.”

He was glad she’d been quiet only because she was considering what he’d said. “I like that you understand these things.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve watched many of your performances—debates, interviews, Q&A. Your tactics are as good as any I’ve seen. But do you know the expression, ‘Every fighter—’”

“‘—has a plan until he gets punched in the face.’”

“Yes. Mike Tyson. Fillian told me you like boxing references.”

“Yeah. My dad used to use them.”

They drove in silence for a moment. He could tell she missed her father. It made him glad—not that she missed him, but that he could tell she did. Those sorts of insights were rare for him, so also precious.

“And the shock,” he went on. “The disruption to your plan. It’s much worse if you had no idea a punch was coming.”

“If you didn’t even realize you’re in a fight.”

“Yes,” he said, pleased that she understood so well. “I wouldn’t assume tonight isn’t a fight. I would expect the opposite. If you expect hostility, the rest should be fine.”

“You think Sting Magazine and Brite Night are what, coordinating a hit?”

“Yes. With the Preempt article providing the ammunition.”

She felt a ripple of disquiet. “Preston wondered the same thing. But couldn’t the timing be just a coincidence?”

They left North Conduit and came to the light at Cross Bay Boulevard. There was a Baskin Robbins on the corner. Sometimes, when he came from the airport, he liked to stop there for ice cream. He thought that would be a nice thing to do with Valeria. Cherries Jubilee was his favorite. He wondered what her favorite would be. But of course they didn’t have time.

“In the movies,” he said, “at moments like this cynical characters always say, ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’ But that’s silly. Of course coincidences exist. They happen all the time. If you flip a coin and it comes up heads five times in a row, why would that automatically not be a coincidence?”

“But you don’t think this is a coincidence.”

“It could be, but things are rarely coincidental when they fit a pattern.”

“A pattern?”

He turned onto Cross Bay Boulevard and the Baskin Robbins disappeared behind them. “One of my superpowers is that I don’t see trees very well. I see forests. Or to put it another way, I’m distracted by forests more than by trees.”

“What’s the pattern you see here?”

“Your campaign was built on opposition to power. Corporations have power. If you oppose power, it will oppose you back.”

“But then why would Brite’s producer even have invited me—Ah. I see your point.”

“Yes. Brite and his producer have latitude. But they take orders from the network.”

“What about the audience? I mean, they couldn’t vote for me from New York, but they tend to align with me politically.”

“I don’t think Brite’s audience would be an impediment to corporate directives. Besides, substitute tribal for partisan. It’s really the same thing. Are you of Brite Night’s tribe?”

“Uh . . .”

“This is why I rented a car rather than using a rideshare. No cameras. No microphones. No driver.”

He waited. He knew she was thinking and didn’t want to interrupt. The rain and the wipers continued to battle. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

“Self-satisfied,” she said. “Over-educated, upwardly mobile. White-collar professionals, fundamentally satisfied with the system and their place and prospects in it. The kind of people who stick a flag or a hashtag or an I Stand With Whatever in their social media feed and tell themselves they’re doing something worthwhile.”

“And is that you?”

“God, no.”

“I agree. Some of your rhetoric, and your stands against actual power, might even make the Brite Night audience feel bad about themselves. But maybe you could make them feel good.”

“How?”

Cross Bay Boulevard became Woodhaven Boulevard. On the corner on the other side of the street was another Baskin Robbins. The one he liked to stop at when he was going to the airport instead of coming from it.

“Humans are like Konrad Lorenz’s goslings,” he said. “You know Lorenz?”

“I think so. The guy who got baby geese to follow him?”

“Yes. Newborn geese need to imprint on something. If their mother is present when they’re born, they follow her. If instead a human scientist is present, they’ll follow the scientist. What they follow can be manipulated. Their need to follow can’t be.”

She didn’t answer, but it was okay. He was learning to interpret her silence. It wasn’t discomfort; it was thought.

“Or to put it another way,” he said. “The humans need to believe in something. What that something is can vary tremendously. But the underlying need is universal.”

“Montie. What do you believe in?”

The question surprised him. He’d never asked it of himself. Only of others.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“But there must be something.”

“I don’t know.”

“You said the need was universal.”

“Among the humans. Yes.”

There was a pause. She said, “I think it would be sad not to believe in anything.”

“I suppose so. But this is my point. The humans need to believe in something. If Brite’s audience has imprinted onto something worthless, it can only be for one reason.”

“Which is?”

“Why did the goslings follow Lorenz?”

Another pause. She said, “He was all they had.”

“At the outset, yes. But maybe the humans aren’t quite so programmatic.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Brite’s audience is imprinted onto something. Maybe you can give them something better.”

They were quiet. He knew she was considering. The rain pattered on the roof.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go in expecting a fight. But what do you think Brite is likely to hit me with?”

“Fillian thinks it will be something about your background. That’s possible. But I think they’ll try a different approach. Of course I can’t know what, but I would expect questions about Lance Thaddeus.”

“I have another friend who thinks Brite is going to ask about him.”

“I agree with your friend. Questions about Thaddeus would be well calculated to hurt you. For example, ‘You’ve previously expressed sympathy and support for Lance Thaddeus. Now he’s murdered an FBI agent. What do you say to the murdered man’s widow?’”

There was a pause. “Yeah,” she said. “I could see that. They could hurt me with that.”

“They’re motivated to hurt Thaddeus, too.”

“Why?”

He followed the navigation system onto the Long Island Expressway. “Thaddeus isn’t really wanted for espionage. Or murder. Those are trivial offenses compared to his cardinal sin.”

“Which is?”

“Causing embarrassment.”

She didn’t answer. She might have been considering, but maybe he hadn’t been clear.

“Power is the perception of power,” he said. “Damage the perception, and you damage the reality. Damage it enough, and power will recognize—correctly—that to repair the perception, and thereby to restore power, the perpetrator can’t merely be proportionately punished. He must be disproportionately destroyed. Did you like that alliteration?”

“I did. And the concept would explain a lot of our foreign policy.”

“Oh, yes. The humans become much easier to understand when you realize they’re mostly just monkeys who’ve learned how to talk. That’s why there’s a straight line running from Pearl Harbor to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. From Nine-Eleven to Iraq and Abu Ghraib. From October Seventh to the annihilation of Gaza. Paradoxically, a powerless monkey can’t be humiliated. The greater the disparity in power, though, the greater the potential for humiliation. It’s very dangerous to humiliate a powerful monkey. The powerful monkey will commit to breathtaking acts of destruction to reassert the perception of power, and therefore its reality.”

She laughed.

There must have been a joke. “What?” he said.

“Your theories dovetail. Factions of the U.S. government are trying to murder Thaddeus because he humiliated them. And Cliff Brite’s producers want to turn Thaddeus into a bad guy because it’ll be good for ratings.”

“Yes. Power and profit.”

“It even alliterates.”

He was aware of how happy he was, and how unusual it felt. “One of my challenges is that I expect the humans to find obvious the same things I do. But the hardest thing for them to see is themselves. Mostly you understand easily. That makes me like you.”

He glanced over and saw she was smiling. But he could tell it was a nice smile, not a mean one.

He looked back at the road. The wipers sluiced away rain. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

“I know I’m strange,” he said.

There was a pause. She said, “You are.”

“Thank you. If you had said I’m not, it would make me distrust you.”

“But you’re strange in a good way. A fascinating way.”

“My parents used to tell me that.”

“They were right.”

They were quiet for a moment. It was nice, feeling happy, listening to the thump-thump, thump-thump of the wipers.

“You know,” he said, “Fillian likes you, too.”

“You think?”

“Yes. But you also make him sad.”

“Because I won?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know. I see human nature clearly. That’s the forest. But each individual human is like a tree. Those I can’t see as well.”

He supposed he couldn’t see himself, either. Because all at once, he felt sad, too.

CHAPTER 34

They’re giving us the circus but not the bread.

—Unknown

Valeria waited backstage, her stomach slowly flip-flopping as she listened to Brite perform the evening’s monologue—droll political observations punctuated by laughs and cheers from the audience. She’d done more interviews than she could count, including some big ones after the election. But this was Cliff Brite and Brite Night. In addition to the four hundred people in the studio, there would be another three million watching at home. And if Montie and the others were right, Brite was planning to make her appearance one giant sucker punch.

Come on, Val. It can’t be worse than what Fillian threw at you during the campaign.

Besides, some hostility could be good. These days, establishment media was mostly puffery. People knew to discount fawning coverage. By contrast, a fight felt real.

And fights went viral. Especially when the underdog turned the tables and won.

A technician in black jeans and a black tee shirt came by and smiled at her. “You ready, Congresswoman?”

Something about his affect struck her as smug. Maybe she was just being paranoid. “I think so. Any advice?”

“Do something to close the carried-interest loophole?”

That was actually pretty funny. She laughed. “I meant the show.”

“Same thing I tell everyone. Don’t worry”—he gave her a double set of finger guns—“Cliff will make you look good.”

Yeah, she’d been right about the smugness. “What would we do without him?” she said.

That seemed to confuse the tech, or at least it prevented the formation of another witticism. “He’s just finishing up,” he said, cocking his head as though listening to something in his earpiece. “Then we go to commercial, and then he’ll introduce you. You’ll know when to go on—the audience will clap at the end of the intro, there are lighted signs at the front of the stage telling them what to do. That’s your moment.”

“Signs to make the audience look good, too?”

He shook his head as though confused. “No, just telling them . . . you know, when to clap, when to laugh. It makes the show sound better at home.”

She nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

The tech departed. She was glad she’d gotten to go a round with him before the main event. It steadied her.

Brite finished up his monologue—something about postal workers wearing silly outfits and driving on the wrong side of the road. The audience laughed on cue. Valeria didn’t get it—a guy who made twenty million a year punching down. Brite’s band started playing, apparently tiding the audience over while a commercial played for the people watching at home.

Her stomach started fluttering again. Come on, Val. In just another minute, you’ll be sitting and talking and you won’t be nervous anymore. Just one more minute.

The band finished its riff. The audience applauded again. “All right,” she heard Brite say. “In a few short months, tonight’s first guest will be the youngest woman in Congress. Which once upon a time meant you were actually youthful, but these days only means you’re not quite eligible for Medicare and an assisted living facility.”

The audience laughed. The flutters in Valeria’s stomach got worse.

“What’s funny,” Brite went on, “is that the Constitution provides minimum ages for federal office eligibility. Twenty-five for representatives; thirty for senators; thirty-five for president. I don’t mean any disrespect to the Founding Fathers, but maybe we could have used a few maximums, too?”

The audience laughed again. Brite was amusing enough, but Valeria wondered how much of the laughter was spontaneous, and how much a response to the signs telling them what to do.

“But by any measure,” he went on, “tonight’s guest is actually young—barely thirty, in fact, which means that along with not needing a walker, she probably believes she can still change the world. Let’s hear why—please welcome Congresswoman-elect Valeria Velez!”

The band struck up a happy tune and the audience applauded. Valeria strode out into the lights, smiling and waving. For a second it all felt surreal, like she was playing a role, a character in a movie about someone else’s life. Brite stood, shook her hand, and gestured to the chair alongside his desk. She sat and waved to the audience again.

“Congresswoman,” he said, as the applause died down. “Thank you for joining us tonight. I know you’ve been busy.”

“It has been a little crazy,” she said. “But only slightly crazier than bartending at a Friday happy hour.”

The audience laughed at the reference to her well-known background.

“Speaking of bars,” Brite said. “I for one think it’s pretty cool that you’ve been meeting with defense contractors over beers. That’s what I call outreach.”

The audience laughed again, but more perfunctorily this time. Probably they didn’t read the Preempt, and Eddie the paparazzi’s photos weren’t yet in wider circulation.

Still, Montie had been dead-on in suspecting Brite might try to use the stuff from the bar. Obviously this was the jab, setting up the straight right of the Preempt or Sting Magazine or whatever. But if this was going to be a fight, she wasn’t going to let him control the pace of it.

“I’d love to talk about my outreach,” she said. “But can I ask you something first?”

Brite blinked. “Sure.”

She smiled. “You were right when you said I believe I can still change the world. I’d hate to think I wore out those four pairs of shoes knocking on constituents’ doors for nothing.”

The audience laughed again at one of the well-known memes from her campaign.

Her pre-fight jitters were gone. Now she was just in it. “Obviously, I don’t think I can change the world alone. No one can do that. But it interested me that you said you wanted to talk about why politicians believe they can change things. Shouldn’t we be talking about how?”

Brite blinked again. She wondered if he understood how hard he’d just gotten hit. He would have sensed the flip of the script, of course—that she was asking the questions now, and that she’d changed the focus, too. But would he have realized she’d also morphed his belittlingly grandiose change the world to the inarguably necessary change things? And that they weren’t talking specifically about her anymore, like she was some kind of weird specimen under his microscope, but about politicians generally?

Every fighter has a plan, she thought, and smiled again, to let him know the punch had been entirely deliberate, and that she’d enjoyed it.

“Aren’t they both important?” Brite said. “I mean, if we don’t understand why you want to change things, can we really be confident about how?”

It wasn’t a bad recovery, but she’d been expecting it. “I’m not saying why is irrelevant, Cliff. But no, it’s not as important. When you ask about why, it’s just an opening for politicians to start shoveling out the empty calories they’ve been feeding us forever.” She shifted into a faux-grave tone. “‘Oh, Cliff, I’m so glad you asked me that . . . I got into politics because I believe our freedoms are under attack, that we’re losing our place as the world leader in innovation, and that our young people are growing up in a country where they’re increasingly unable to achieve the promise of the American dream. Now send me money and remember to vote!’”

The audience laughed. Brite looked unhappy. Valeria wasn’t going to let up—Never let the other guy breathe, Héctor used to say. But had she given him time to think, he might have understood that she’d just shifted the focus again, referring to politicians as they, and thereby making Valeria and the audience the us.

“But aren’t those things all true?” Brite said.

She had him reacting now. His counterpunches were weak, and she saw them coming before he even threw them.

“Sure they’re true, but if we let politicians endlessly blather about their aspirations while giving them a pass on how they plan to accomplish those aspirations, we’ll never create a mandate for change.”

“You really don’t like politicians, do you?”

She laughed. “Does anyone?”

The audience laughed, too. Brite smiled and glanced at the notes typed out on a blue pad on his desk. She knew he was about to unload something.

“You wrote a column for the school newspaper at San Jose State, is that right?”

She didn’t know where he was going with this. Only that he was trying to come off the ropes.

“I did,” she said. “It was called The Heart of the Matter. My early ruminations on politics.”

“Yes, and on politicians. It’s too bad it’s not available anymore. Did you take it down?”

So this was the kind of derogatory information Sting Magazine was trying to put together. If they’d found anything, they were good—Preston had assured her it had all been thoroughly scrubbed.

“My campaign did,” she said, knowing she needed to counterpunch but not yet seeing a good opening. “My people were afraid my late-teen and early-20s ruminations would be dredged up and taken out of context. Kind of like I’m guessing you’re about to do.”

The audience laughed, a hint of nervousness in the tone.

Brite smiled. “What, are you ashamed of anything you wrote back then?”

“I don’t know about ashamed. Maybe embarrassed. Did you do anything as a teenager you’d find embarrassing if anyone brought it up now?”

The audience laughed again, and with the same tinge of discomfort.

Brite consulted his notes. “Here’s what you believed at the time. Quote, ‘Politicians are a necessary evil. They should be treated not with respect and reverence, but only with the utmost skepticism, suspicion, and scorn.’ Do you still believe that? That politicians are evil?”

This couldn’t be his best shot. There had to be more coming.

She laughed. “Are you kidding? Now more than ever.”

The audience laughed with her.

“Even though you’re one of them now?”

“Especially because I’m one now. And Cliff, it seems you agree with my teenage beliefs. Isn’t that why you’re treating me with skepticism and suspicion, and maybe just a tiny bit of scorn?”

More laughter. Brite blinked. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’m just asking questions. But really, why are you so hard on politicians? Aren’t they public servants?”

She laughed again. “They’d certainly like us all to think so—it’s why they invented the term.”

The audience laughed again, obviously enjoying the sparring. Okay, time to hit hard.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Do politicians have power?”

“This is a democracy,” he said, a little wariness in his tone. “Ultimately the people have power.”

“You’re saying in America politicians don’t have power?”

That was so self-evidently a ridiculous proposition, she knew he would have no choice but to refute it.

“Limited power,” he said. “Enumerated in the Constitution.”

“Okay. Limited power. Now, you’re a wealthy man, Cliff. You must have gardeners, house-keepers, drivers . . . maybe cooks and valets and laundresses, too, I don’t know. But servants. In your experience, do your servants have power? Or do you?”

This time, the audience didn’t laugh. They were too intent.

“Come on, Valeria, public servant is just a figure of speech.”

She liked that he’d dropped the Congresswoman title and was calling her by first name. She’d rattled him, enough so that it was becoming important to his ego and sense of status that he display his disdain. She doubted the audience would be impressed by it.

“I just want us to be accurate,” she said. “So yes, I believed then and believe now that politicians are much more akin to rulers than they are to servants. Which is why public servants is some of the greatest propaganda ever invented in America, up there with changing the name of the War Department to Defense Department, and the pretense that America needs a third political party as a way of concealing that in any meaningful sense we don’t even have two.”

The audience was laughing again. She saw a possible riff, started to think better of it, and then thought Fuck it.

“I mean, who comes up with these self-congratulatory terms, anyway? Who made Britain ‘Great’ Britain? Who bestowed upon the New York Times the appellation ‘The Paper of Record’? And who decided to pretend our rulers are actually our servants?”

The audience laughed harder. Preston was going to be pissed, but they could worry about placating the British and the New York Times later.

“We name schools and bridges and airports after these people,” she went on. “The same people who are abusing us! In another context, wouldn’t this behavior be understood as Stockholm Syndrome? Hostages falling in love with their captors?”

The audience howled. Brite’s expression was that of a boy who’d just taken a big gulp of milk he belatedly realized was sour. “But isn’t that you now?” he said. “Aren’t you in a sense insulting yourself?”

“I don’t represent politicians. I represent people.”

“What, now politicians aren’t people?”

“They are, Cliff. They are. And that’s about the kindest thing anyone can legitimately say about them.”

The audience laughed and laughed. Brite nodded as though to acknowledge she’d made a good point. He was smart enough to know he might steer his viewers, but it would be risky to oppose them. Those lighted signs could only do so much.

He glanced at his notes again, searching, she knew, for a punch that would land.

“I’m sure you saw the news today,” he said. “Hacker Lance Thaddeus, who you’ve defended in the past, just murdered an FBI agent.”

Bingo. Brandon and Montie, I owe you.

“I saw he’s been accused of that, yes.”

“So you’re still defending him?”

“I’m defending due process. The bedrock American principle that people are innocent until proven guilty, and that we conduct trials in courtrooms, not on talk shows.”

“Okay, but even apart from the most recent accusation, do you deny he has blood on his hands?”

“I know that’s what the government says. I know that’s what the government says every time a whistleblower exposes something the government finds embarrassing. But whose hands are really bloody? How many innocents has our government killed? As many as three million in Southeast Asia. Three hundred thousand just in Iraq. Almost five million in our so-called Global War on Terror. We had a Secretary of State argue that killing five-hundred thousand children was ‘worth it.’ Do you agree?”

She thought he was going to take issue with her characterization of Thaddeus as a whistleblower. Instead he said, “I don’t think random chaos agents should be able to unilaterally decide what gets classified and what gets exposed, no.”

“But this is another thing I always find curious. Anytime a whistleblower pokes a tiny pinprick in the giant wall of secrecy the government has erected, we’re trained to complain that Oh, it wasn’t exactly the right-sized pinprick, it wasn’t made in exactly the right place, it wasn’t done at exactly the right time. We’re trained to focus on the tiny pinprick and to ignore the giant wall of secrecy it was made in—a wall that never stops growing and that allows the government to know more and more about we the people, while ensuring that we the people know less and less about the government. Do you think that’s right?”

He laughed, his version of bobbing and weaving. “I’m not sure if it’s so important what I think. I’m just a talk show host, like you said, not one of those politicians you revile. But all right. During your campaign, you talked a lot about wanting peace, prosperity, and justice. But now you say how is all that really matters. All right, how?”

Another weak punch she’d known was coming. “Isn’t it obvious, Cliff? For starters, whenever I’m on a show like yours, I’m going to make the host talk substance no matter how much he tries to avoid it.”

The audience broke out in applause and laughter. She knew Cliff could feel he was losing. That meant he had two choices. Stop fighting. Or escalate.

“No, really,” he said. “Here’s your chance. How? How are you, a congresswoman-elect who until almost literally yesterday was just a bartender, going to achieve all that peace, prosperity, and justice?”

Yeah, she’d been betting it would be escalation. A guy who made twenty million a year and spent his days surrounded by sycophants was bound to have a hard time accepting that he was getting his ass kicked on his own stage.

“I’m glad you asked,” she said, buying an extra second to think. “How is through the For The People Act.”

“Really? Why have I never heard of this?”

Because I just came up with it now, she thought. She hoped no one had used the name before. Preston was probably cursing right at that moment and scrambling to google it.

She laughed. “Well, you said it yourself, Cliff—until practically yesterday I was only a bartender.” She waited for a burst of laughter to die down, then continued. “The For The People Act has three parts. First, a universal basic income, which will change our society from something stymied by fear into one powered by hope. Second, ranked-choice voting, which will free voters from the lesser-of-two-evils dilemma that keeps the duopoly from responding to our needs. And third, federal matching funds for small-donor donations—which will create an alternative to the money politics that have poisoned our democracy.” She turned and looked out at the audience. “How does that sound to you?”

The audience whooped and cheered. Valeria looked back at Cliff. “The people seem to like it.”

“I’m not sure I understand, but it sounds like you’re talking about income redistribution.”

“I don’t care what you call it. The poor stay poor, the middle is getting poorer, and the rich are richer than ever. There is redistribution, and it’s being given to the rich and getting taken from everyone else. So let’s not talk about ‘redistribution’ as though it’s some exotic thing that’s never existed before. It’s just another one of those scare words, like ‘class warfare.’ Of course there’s class warfare, and it’s terrible, and the rich should stop waging it against everyone else. Don’t you agree?”

The audience laughed again.

“But isn’t this just more rhetoric?” Brite said. “Don’t get me wrong. It sounds good. Pie in the sky always does. But how do we know you mean it?”

She didn’t know whether the we was unconscious or deliberate. Either way, it wasn’t going to be enough to weaken the bond she sensed she’d built with his audience.

“That’s a great question,” she said. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret. Anytime you want to know whether a politician is saying something at least potentially serious, ask yourself who it offends. If all the politician wants to talk about is blah blah blah the American Dream, no one is threatened by that. It’s just bromides, a con job.”

“You’re saying the American Dream is a con job?”

JFC, she thought. That’s the best you’ve got?

“Well, wasn’t it your fellow comedian George Carlin who said, ‘It’s called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it’?”

The audience laughed again, and she waited until it began to die down. “But no, Cliff, that’s not what I said. I said if all a politician wants to talk about is the American Dream, that’s a con job.”

“So you believe the American Dream is real.”

“Am I not proof of it?”

There was a burst of applause. Probably the audience couldn’t see it, but Brite’s face was getting red. Anger or frustration or both. She almost wished she could get him to back off. His swings were getting wilder, and it was only getting worse for him.

He glanced at his notes again. “Okay. Let me ask you one more question before we go to commercial. It’s about something you said at your victory party just a few nights ago, something it seems concerned a lot of people. What you said was, ‘Today is a good day to die.’ And speaking of politicians and why—rightly or wrongly—they’re reviled in various quarters, it seems there are a lot of people concerned that in connection with some of your other rhetoric, maybe you hate America, and that this hatred has combined with some sort of death wish. Do you think that’s true? Do you have some sort of death wish for America?”

The audience laughed a little uneasily, probably anxious at hearing an echo of some of Dunne’s uglier attack lines from the campaign.

But that was it, she could sense it, his last wild swing, a desperate attempt to win by knockout after decisively losing on points. She’d been preparing to challenge him on his claim that “a lot of people” were concerned about her “good day to die” comment—Who, Cliff? Who are these people? Can you name any of them?—but he’d given her a better opening for a more devastating punch, and sometimes you had to choose.

“Thank you,” she said, laughing. “Seriously, thank you, Cliff, for that perfect example of something we should all be more aware of.”

She turned to the audience and addressed them directly. “Cliff is an intelligent man. I mean, they don’t pay you twenty million a year if you don’t have a first-rate brain, am I right?”

There was scattered laughter again, a little less discomfort in it than a moment earlier.

“He appreciates context,” she went on. “He knows what a metaphor is. So he understands that when I told that reporter, ‘Today is a good day to die,’ what I meant is that if politicians want to do right by the people we represent, we need to stop fearing special interests and remember why we ran for office in the first place. To serve the people, not to serve power.”

“Oh,” Brite said, trying to deflect the punch he felt coming. “So you are public servants.”

She didn’t even look at him. “We’re supposed to be. But this is why Cliff left out the rest of what I said to that reporter. Which was, ‘What the expression means here is that I’m not afraid to lose.’ If he’d given you the full quote, he wouldn’t have been able to try to pretend that I have some sort of weird death fetish. He wouldn’t have been able to go for the dishonest soundbite, the zinger, the gotcha. But let’s be honest, these sorts of straw men and cheap shots are fun. And they work. Establishment media engages in this kind of nonsense all the time, it’s practically their formal role now. Sowing fear of and resistance to anyone trying to make things better for ordinary people. And it’s not just the media. Politicians do it, too. Always with the aim of manipulating us. Well, I don’t play that game. And when someone tries to play it on me”—she turned and looked at Brite—“I’m going to expose it for what it is.”

No laughter this time. There was a call of, Preach it, Valeria! Cries of, You tell ’em! And You go girl! Someone shouted the campaign slogan, All of us, baby! All of us! And then others took up the cry, too, and something in the energy of the room seemed to detonate, like a bomb, like a fireball, and across the studio people began rising to their feet, cheering, clapping, and the cheers began to cohere into a single, bellowing cry:

All of us! All of us! All of us!

Brite stared out at them, slack-jawed. He couldn’t have looked more stupefied if he’d been having a stroke.

“Okay,” he stammered after a moment. “Okay.”

But they kept going, stomping now in time with the chant. ALL OF US! ALL OF US! ALL OF US!

He signaled to his musicians, maybe hoping they’d strike up a tune to bring the audience back into line. Valeria was stunned to see the band leader respond with a single shake of his head.

Brite looked at Valeria. “Jesus Christ.”

She smiled, unabashedly enjoying the feeling of dominance. “Any other questions, Cliff?”

ALL OF US! ALL OF US! ALL OF US!

“Can you make them stop?”

“Even if I could, why would I want to?”

“We’re trying to do a show here.”

She thought of Rocky and laughed. “They don’t know it’s a damn show. They think it’s a damn fight.”

He looked out at the audience again, obviously stricken. Well, of course he was. He’d thought the audience was his pet, and suddenly the pet was impervious to his commands. Impervious to him.

He turned back to Valeria. “Call them off?”

“You promise to be more substantive?”

“Yes.”

She stood and held up her hands, palms forward. She’d meant the gesture to be calming, to signal it was time to take it down a notch, the way Preston had done at the Lancaster victory party. But the sight of her coming to her feet, standing as they were, made the audience even more rapturous, their chanting deafening now, booming like a thunderclap, the stage shaking from the synchronized stomping.

Valeria paused, relishing the feeling, then slowly lowered her hands. The chants began to lose their coherence, dissolving into cheers. Gradually people settled back in their seats. Many were laughing. A few, she saw, were crying.

“Do you see?” she called out, still standing. “What happens when we find our voice and speak as one?”

There was more applause. Cheers and hollers.

“This is what they want us to lose sight of. Lose hope of. What Martin Luther King told us, in his final speech, all the way back in 1968 in Memphis. ‘And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can’t ride your back unless it is bent!’”

The cheers and applause grew thunderous again, and she nodded to let them know she was with them, they wanted the same things and were part of the same fight.

When the uproar began to ebb, she said, “Now I’m glad to report that Cliff and I have agreed to a more substantive conversation. Specifically, he wants to know more about the For The People Act, and especially about a universal basic income. How a UBI would actually make government smaller, and how it would be cheaper than welfare, simple to administer, and beneficial for the whole economy—not just for the people who need it most, but for all of us. I want to thank Cliff for that opportunity. We all should.”

The audience broke into applause again and there were scattered cheers and cries of All of us! She took her seat and smiled at Brite. He smiled back, frozen daggers in his eyes. Daggers, but also fear.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “To be honest, I’m a UBI skeptic myself. But go ahead. Change my mind.”

CHAPTER 35

Don’t matter your color. Prisoner’s a prisoner. The guards are the guards.

—Unknown

Valeria lay awake in the Sheraton Times Square, staring at the ceiling, the room’s outlines faintly visible from the light creeping in at the edge of the window curtains. It was almost five in the morning and she’d been utterly unable to sleep.

Cranston had booked a room at the Sheraton, too, and after the show, they’d walked back together. The rain had stopped and it was the quietest part of the morning—the tourists done, the night denizens mostly gone to bed, but still too early for delivery trucks and sanitation workers. Even the famous Times Square traffic was sparse, and the area felt as relaxed as Valeria imagined it could feel, like the end of some long, quotidian exhale, a fugitive moment before the next day’s intake of breath.

Cranston had smiled nonstop as they walked. And not the odd, practiced version she noticed when they first met. This one was crooked, with an air of astonishment, and made him look mildly inebriated—his real smile, she realized.

“It’s pointless for me to say this because you’re intelligent,” he told her. “Plus you’re smiling, so obviously you’re already aware. But you were wonderful tonight.”

Lots of people backstage had told her—albeit furtively—that she’d been great. But Montie’s lack of any discernible guile made praise from him different.

“It’s not pointless at all, Montie. Coming from you it means a lot. Thanks for picking me up and getting me ready. You were right—obviously—about the ambush.”

“I’m sure our conversation helped you understand that taking the initiative was tactically sound. Beyond that, I don’t think I contributed very much. But I feel comfortable. I feel like you’re my friend. I don’t have many friends. Because I’m strange.”

She glanced at him, feeling a pang of sympathy. “Anyone who wouldn’t be friends with you because you’re strange gave up a wonderful opportunity. And wouldn’t have been worth having as a friend anyway.”

They walked in silence for a moment. He said, “Sometimes you say things my parents used to tell me.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

Back in her room, the calls and messages had been nonstop. Mateo, devoid of cracks, declaring his awe of his “rock star” sister, and promising to try to get Josie to watch the Brite Night clip when it was posted online in the hope that their mom’s pride in her daughter might soften her anger and hurt. Brandon, texting that if people hadn’t known not to fuck with Valeria Velez before, they damn sure knew it now. Dunne, assuring her that in his twenty years in politics he had never seen anything even close to what she’d pulled off that night, and that as a father of three sons, he had no doubt if Valeria’s dad had been here, he would have been bursting with pride at his extraordinary daughter.

The messages from Brandon and Dunne had been sweet—she’d even teared up a little at Dunne’s. But she didn’t know how to feel about Josie. Valeria knew the breakup of the marriage, of their family, had bent Josie, maybe even broken her in some way. She was probably diagnosable, though Valeria didn’t like to think about that. And it wasn’t as though Valeria had never before witnessed, or been on the wrong end of, one of Josie’s apocalyptic rages. But what she had said this time . . . Valeria had never imagined such words could be possible, any more than she could have imagined her own mother trying to murder her. But Josie had said those words. And then gone back in the house, closed the door, and restarted the vacuum as though the words had been nothing, just a snap of the fingers that had caused her daughter to disappear from before her eyes. And now . . . was there any going back from that? Accepting an apology, assuming one would even be forthcoming? Forgetting it happened? Acting as though it hadn’t disfigured their relationship in some way that could never be repaired?

And at the same time, it unnerved her that maybe she and Josie weren’t so different. Josie couldn’t forgive her, but wasn’t she imagining that she couldn’t forgive Josie?

Maybe. But doesn’t the underlying offense matter, too?

She didn’t know. And it unnerved her also that so many things had been happening, so many confused feelings roiling in her mind, and she was dealing with it again and again by not dealing with it, by telling herself she’d worry about it later.

Well, you’ll worry about that later, too.

She’d talked to Preston, of course. It had been all right at first. He enthused over everything she’d done right—the reframing, the taking charge, the balls she’d shown by challenging Brite on his own show. How she’d been even funnier than Brite, how rapturous the audience had been. He wasn’t even upset that she’d probably pissed off the British and the New York Times. “I’m so proud of you,” he’d told her.

“Not proud of both of us?” she’d said.

There was a pause. “Val. Tonight was all you.”

“You convinced me to run, remember? And Helios and Jenkins were the ones who warned us about the Sting article Brite tried to use. If you hadn’t pushed me to meet them, I never would have known.”

Of course, it was Montie more than anyone else who’d put together all the pieces on what Cliff Brite was planning. But still.

He didn’t answer.

“Come on, Pres. Neither of us is nothing alone, but we’re a hell of a lot more together.”

“I know,” Preston said. “But . . . I’m just saying, this was your night.”

And then he’d quickly transitioned to business. Even this late at night, he told her, he was getting requests from independent media. He had a lot of ideas about how they could exploit the appearance with Brite in their Internet outreach, and leverage it into appearances in other venues. He wasn’t expecting any inquiries from the big corporate shows, though. The one potential downside of the evening was that after seeing Brite get knocked out, none of his cohorts was likely to risk getting in the ring with her.

It had been worth it, though. For the publicity, of course, and how it burnished her outsider political brand. But most of all, for the way the beating she’d administered had finally gotten Brite to let her use his platform to evangelize for the newly minted For The People Act, and especially the universal basic income aspect. There was nothing more important to her than that.

Still, she felt sad after they were off the phone. He was as dutiful as ever, but at the same time, she could feel some sort of gulf growing between them, some difference in their priorities or focus. She wanted to address it, but didn’t know how.

She thought of Brandon. She knew it couldn’t go anywhere, but there was no denying she was attracted to him. And knowing he felt the same about her didn’t make it any easier. Was the weirdness with Preston the cause of the attraction? Or the consequence? Or was it unrelated?

Another thing to worry about later.

One thing she’d been planning to tell Preston, but then for some reason hadn’t, was a weird exchange with Brite, after he’d agreed to talk seriously about a UBI but before they came back from the break for a commercial.

He’d leaned close while the band played, and smiling to make it look friendly, quietly said, “What the fuck was that?”

She’d been taken aback. “You going to tell me you weren’t trying to ambush me?”

He didn’t respond, and she went on. “You were, weren’t you? Why?”

“I don’t ask why. And neither should you.”

“Then who?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, what the fuck? We’re going to talk about your UBI now and this For The People thing? Are you trying to cost me my job?”

“Just trying to get you to use your platform.”

“It’s not mine. It’s the network’s.”

“Are you the network’s, too?”

“My God. You really don’t understand how it works.”

“It works the way it does because people don’t try to change it. You make twenty million dollars a year—if you’re not willing to take risks, who will?”

“You think people are paid salaries like mine to take risks? Look what Fox News did to Tucker Carlson. He was the most popular cable news show host in history. The minute he started speaking his mind and broke with the corporate line? He was done.”

It was weird, the way he kept smiling and nodding, to make the audience think the two of them were having a pleasant, personal aside.

“He’s not done,” she said. “He has his own show now, and he’s reaching more people than ever. You could, too. You don’t have to be a puppet operated by a corporate ventriloquist.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable?”

“All the time. And if they stop? I’ll know it’s because I sold out.”

He’d laughed then. She didn’t sense much happiness in it. More an edge of cruel glee.

“I’m already looking forward to that,” he’d said.

She was finally falling asleep when a knock woke her. It was so soft she assumed it was someone else’s door. But then it came again. A third time.

She checked her phone. It was just after six. The soft knock came again.

What the hell?

Could it have been Montie? It seemed unlikely. He’d been nothing but a gentleman the night before, giving off not even a hint that he was hoping at some point they’d wind up in the same room. He was about the last person she could think of who might be tempted by a six-in-the-morning booty call. Besides, he didn’t know what room she was in. For that matter, neither did Preston, a second possibility that made no more sense than the first.

Then who?

She got up, padded naked to the door, and looked through the peephole. There was a man on the other side. He was wearing a hoodie and looking down and she couldn’t see his face.

“Who is it?” she said.

The man glanced up, directly into the peephole. He looked familiar, but for a moment, Valeria couldn’t place him. Then it hit her.

Jesus Christ.

The man was Lance Thaddeus.

CHAPTER 36

Yes, but I’ll preside over the ruins.

—Senator Boies Penrose

“Congresswoman Velez,” Thaddeus said, his voice as soft as his knocking. “It’s vital you hear what I have to tell you. Please, let me in.”

Her heart was hammering. How could he possibly have known she was staying here? Had he followed her from the studio? But he still wouldn’t know what room. She wanted to run to the phone and call hotel security. And then felt a wave of shame at the impulse.

He touched his fingers to the door as though trying to commune with her through it. “Congresswoman. Please.”

What did he even want? She had no idea what to do. Not call security, but . . . just ignore him? She could pretend it never happened. Even if later he claimed he’d been here, she could deny having heard him or having come to the door. How would anyone prove otherwise?

Because to let him in, to meet with this fugitive the government and establishment media had so successfully turned into Public Enemy #1 . . . she had her own enemies, enemies who were already motivated enough to dig for dirt and try to ambush her with it on talk-show appearances. If this got out, it would be the end of her. And not just the end of her political career. They could bring Espionage Act charges, too. They’d used the Act on whistleblowers, journalists, even a former president . . . was there any question they’d use it against a mere congressperson-elect?

Not to mention, he’d killed someone, hadn’t he? Maybe not, or maybe it wasn’t the way the media was presenting it—

“Please,” he said again. “Let me in.”

In the end, her shame at her fear proved more powerful than the fear itself. Feeling she was making the worst mistake of her life, she grabbed the hotel robe from the bathroom, pulled it on, and opened the door. Thaddeus stepped in so fast and smoothly it was as though something had sucked him inside, and she had the door closed and latched behind him just as instantly.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there wordlessly. Thaddeus was shivering. He had a wet backpack slung over one shoulder, and his clothes were wet, too—a gray hoodie, navy pea coat, dark jeans, and sneakers. It must have been raining again, and he’d obviously been out in it.

It was embarrassing, but she suddenly realized she needed to pee. “Wait here,” she said. “Don’t move. Okay?” She had an irrational fear he was going to run off with her laptop, or try to hack into it.

“You’re not going to call anyone, are you?”

“I’m going to use the bathroom. You woke me up. But stay right where you are, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you. Please, don’t call anyone. You need to hear what I’m going to tell you.”

“I’m not going to call anyone. Just wait right here.”

She ducked into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, and sat on the toilet, shaking her head, her heart still hammering. It was completely surreal, she was in a hotel room, peeing, the most ordinary of things, but with Lance Thaddeus waiting on the other side of the door.

For whatever reason, she found herself wondering why he’d addressed her as Congresswoman. An appeal to her sense of duty? Wouldn’t that be risky, though? What if she thought her duty was more to the state?

It was weird, how in the midst of even the most calamitous of circumstances, the mind could seize on the most trivial of things.

She finished and flushed, redid the robe, and went back out. Thaddeus was standing exactly where she’d left him.

“Why did you call me Congresswoman?” she said.

“What?”

“Why?”

“That’s what you want to know?”

“You thought about it, didn’t you? It was a conscious decision.”

He shook his head, more in confusion or disbelief than in negation. “I saw your appearance with Cliff Brite last night. I wanted to appeal to your sense of your new responsibilities. In a year, or five years, if you’re like all the others, you’ll think those responsibilities are to the powerful. But right now, my sense is they’re still to the people. Am I right? I must be, since you opened the door.”

She wasn’t going to allow him to take control of the dynamic, the way she had with Brite. “I’ll ask the questions,” she said. “How did you know I’m staying here?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I hack into corporate databases. Intelligence assessments. Pentagon communication networks. You really think a hotel is a bigger challenge than that?”

It seemed plausible. And she couldn’t think of anything that made more sense. But still—

“You need a keycard to access guest floors,” she said. “How did you manage that?”

He pulled a hotel keycard from his back pocket. “I paced in the lobby, pretending to talk on a dummy phone. Just a shell, no electronics, nothing that could be tracked. People are already checking out, for early flights or whatever. I waited until someone set down a keycard and the clerk was distracted.”

“Fine,” she said. “What do you want?”

“That guy Brite said I murdered. I know what all the networks are trying to get people to believe, but it was self-defense! He was going to kill me!”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know, do congresspeople typically give a shit that the government is sending assassins to murder U.S. citizens without charge, trial, or conviction?”

She had to admire the way he had taken her question, which was about her, and smoothly expanded it into a principle that applied to congresspeople generally. It was exactly what she’d done to Brite.

“No, why me? I won’t even take my oath until January. There are five hundred and thirty-five actual congresspeople you could have gone to. And who knows who else. So why me, specifically?”

“Because I’m desperate. Why do you think?”

That was hardly a satisfying answer, so she waited.

After a moment, he said, “I don’t know how they found me—unlike you, I don’t check into hotels under my own name, using credit cards and real contact information. And by freak luck I knocked his gun out of his hand, but then he tried to get a knife, and I just kept hitting him, and . . . I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but oh my God he was going to fucking kill us!”

For a weird second, her mind flashed again to the Star Trek “Space Seed” episode, where Kirk and Spock tricked Khan into saying, We offered the world order!

“Us?” she said.

There was a pause. He said, “Fuck. It doesn’t matter. The girl I was with. He was going to kill her, too. But she wasn’t part of my work. I told her to go the local police, and to call some real reporters first. I couldn’t think of anything else. She couldn’t stay with me. I don’t think they’re interested in her, but they wouldn’t have left a witness. It’s me they want dead.”

He was obviously strung out. If she wanted him coherent, she had to get him to calm down. But she was barely managing to calm herself.

He rubbed his hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m not making sense. I’m cold and wet and tired and hungry. Four of the major discomforts, but at least I got to use the bathroom in the lobby so it’s not all five. You know, I was always telling myself the probable worst-case scenario was they’d arrest me, Espionage Act me, bury me in a supermax prison as an example to anyone else who challenged their power . . . but man, these fuckers seriously don’t fuck around! It’s funny, on some level I guess I actually thought they’d obey their own laws. Can you imagine I’d believe that? Me, of all people.”

He was really beginning to unnerve her. She’d opened the door thinking the risk she was taking was to her career, and possibly to her liberty. A version of what Thaddeus had been telling himself before reality corrected his misunderstanding. Now she was beginning to wonder if the risk could be graver than that. It seemed ridiculous. The Espionage Act was one thing, but would they really assassinate a newly elected member of Congress?

But wasn’t all that exactly the kind of thing Thaddeus had been telling himself, and that it seemed he’d been so wrong about?

She remembered what Brandon had said. It seemed a long time ago, but in fact was only yesterday:

Not all guys like me go on to found startups. Some make themselves available as cut-outs. For work that needs to be deniable.

She could feel the fear increasing in intensity, the what-if thoughts picking up speed, getting ready to gallop off into paranoia and panic.

No. You’re in this now, Val. And the only way out is through.

She had an idea. “The minibar has nothing but snacks. But I could order something from room service. You could hide in the closet when they come. Okay?”

“Please,” he said, nodding almost frantically. “Yes. I’m starving. I’m afraid to buy anything, even for cash. My picture is on all the news shows. Every time someone sees my face it’s a risk. I couldn’t even take a cab. I walked from Port Authority and it’s fucking pouring out.”

“What do you want?”

“Eggs. Anything.”

She nodded. “Come on.”

She sat at the desk while Thaddeus took the upholstered chair adjacent. She called room service—did they have an American breakfast? Wonderful. She wanted to order two, but realized that would suggest a second person in the room. So she got Thaddeus the version she would have eaten: scrambled eggs, chicken apple sausage, potatoes, wheat toast. And black coffee and orange juice. She’d go out to get something for herself later.

She hung up and spun the desk chair around to face him. “They said twenty minutes. Now, you were telling me why. Why me.”

He nodded. “I followed your campaign. You’re obviously smart and you said all the right things. But you’re a politician now, so even if you mean well initially, it won’t be long before you’re suborned. Let’s be honest, politicians are whores, you practically said so yourself on Brite’s show. So I never would have come to you. But I didn’t have a Plan B for a guy with a gun showing up at my hotel room trying to kill me and I killed him first. Or, I thought I had a plan, but when it actually happened, I realized I didn’t have shit.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was avoiding her question on purpose, or because he was so agitated he was having trouble thinking straight. And his lack of coherence was making it harder for her to manage her own fear.

“Why me, Lance,” she said, gently clapping her palms together for emphasis. “What do you want from me?”

He squeezed his hands against his sides and rocked back and forth. “Right now? I swear to God just breakfast.”

“Well, that’s coming.”

“Yeah. Okay, I think they tracked me to Pittsburgh at least partly using some kind of military AI, so I need to take my own brain out of the decision-making process. Do you understand? I think they can predict me in ways I can’t see. God, it’s gross to even think about it, it’s such a mind-fuck. So I need to be more random. I got the hell out of Dodge, a bus from Pittsburgh to New York. And when I got to Port Authority, I flipped a coin a few times and the random outcome was a bus to Buffalo that left in two hours. There was a TV in the waiting area. Brite’s show. I saw what you did to him, and thought . . . she must still be in New York. Maybe she’ll help me.”

“How?”

“I have something. I uploaded it, but they’re not going to publish it.”

She struggled to suppress her frustration with all the circumlocutions. “What do you mean, they’re not going to publish it? Who? What?”

“No one’s going to publish anything this big without corroborating sources, and I didn’t have time for all that, I was working off an insecure connection on a goddamn bus from Pittsburgh. The only questions used to be, Is it accurate? And Is it newsworthy? Now there’s this bullshit stunt where they say, Oh, we don’t care if it’s accurate and newsworthy, we need to consider the source. And right now the only source is me. The fourth estate my ass, they’re like an auxiliary of government now.”

“I thought you give all of them information at the same time. Like a prisoner’s-dilemma dynamic. So they have an incentive to publish, because they know their competitors all got the same dump.”

“Yeah. And it works great except when it doesn’t. For the really major stuff, there is no competition. It’s a conspiracy of silence, they treat the biggest revelations like a hoax. Look what they did with the Hunter Biden laptop story! And that was just politics, which wing of the party gets to sit in the Oval Office for the next four years, who even gives a shit? And did you see what they did with Seymour Hersh’s story about how America blew up Russia’s Nord Stream pipeline? That shit could have kicked off World War Three, but none of them would touch it, Hersh published it on Substack. The New York Times said the whole thing was a mystery, other outlets were claiming Russia blew up its own pipeline!”

She wanted to know what information he had. But she was getting increasingly afraid to hear.

“What about smaller outlets?” she said. “Dissident writers?”

He shook his head. “Same problem. Documents from a single source, they won’t publish without corroboration. Besides, Americans don’t even believe we have dissidents, they think dissidents and propaganda only happen in Communist countries. Didn’t I just say, Hersh had to publish his Nord Stream report on Substack? And establishment outlets immediately poured so much shit on the story they suffocated it. Oh, Hersh is an old man, he’s a crank, he relies on anonymous sources! A Pulitzer, two National Magazine Awards, five Polk Awards, but the moment he claimed it was Syrian rebels using poison gas, not the Syrian government, they all turned on him to preserve the official narrative. And don’t even get me started on how the Twitter Files were a fucking ‘nothingburger.’”

She was still struggling to stay calm and needed a moment to think. But he must have misinterpreted her silence, because he said, “I’m sorry. I know you’re taking a big risk and I really, really appreciate it. I’m just . . . stressed. I didn’t mean to bite the hand.”

“It’s okay.”

“I mean, I think it’s one politician in a thousand that would have the balls and integrity to open their door the way you did.”

She gave him a weak, rueful laugh. “Or the stupidity.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t stupid. It was right.”

They were quiet for a moment. He said, “The problem is that there’s really no individual brand in media strong enough to withstand a coordinated establishment smear campaign. I mean, Joe Rogan and Tucker Carlson have survived some heavy establishment hits. But they’re not investigative journalists, they don’t handle stories like this one. And for everyone else . . . even Greenwald, good luck finding his reporting on YouTube, Google suppresses it, you have to use Rumble. You get it? The more truthful and important the story, the louder the establishment static drowning it out. I need something different. I need you.”

The door chimed. Thaddeus almost jumped out of his seat, his head swiveling toward the sound.

Valeria put a hand on his knee. “Room service,” she said quietly.

He glanced at her, then back to the door, seeming not at all reassured.

She was already reasonably freaked out that any of this was happening, and his paranoia suddenly made her doubtful. “Could you have been followed?” she whispered.

“No!” he whispered back. “I’m positive. And my electronics are in a Faraday bag inside my backpack. No one’s tracking me.”

“Then it’s room service. Get in the closet.”

He hesitated for a second, then got up and did as she said.

She tightened the robe, her heart picking up speed again, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole. On the other side was a skinny Latino in hotel livery, barely out of his teens, standing next to one of those carts that open into a table.

“Who is it?” she said.

“Room service. Your American breakfast.”

From the accent, she thought Dominican. On instinct, she switched to Spanish. “Me estoy vistiendo. ¿Favor de dejarlo fuera de la puerta?” I’m not dressed. Can you leave it outside the door?

“Ah, tienes que firmar, pero . . . ¿Lo puedo deslizar debajo de la puerta?” You’re supposed to sign, but . . . I could slide the check under the door?

Okay. Unless the CIA was hiring skinny teenage Dominicans for its wet work, she and Thaddeus were probably fine.

“Perfecto. Muchas gracias.”

She went to the desk and grabbed a pen. By the time she was back, the check had already been slipped under the door. She signed, sent it back the same way, and looked through the peephole again.

“Gracias,” the guy said, straightening after retrieving the check. “Buen provecho.” Enjoy your breakfast.

He walked away. She waited until she couldn’t hear him anymore, then unlocked the door, opened it, and peeked through the crack. The corridor was empty.

She pulled in the cart, relocked the door, then pushed the cart into the room. “You can come out,” she said. “We’re good.”

Ten seconds later, Thaddeus was wolfing down the food. “I’m sorry,” he said between bites. “You wouldn’t believe how primally hungry you get when someone tries to kill you. I wouldn’t have believed it, either. I’d describe it in my memoirs, but I’m probably not going to live long enough to write them.”

She couldn’t tell how much of his morbid asides were jokes. Not that much, she decided.

He was drinking the coffee as fast as he could without getting scalded. “You want some?” he said.

“I’m good.”

“Mmm. God, I was so cold. I just wasn’t ready for this. I thought I was, but I wasn’t. I know I already said that. I guess . . . I’m still trying to get my head around it.”

By the time he was mopping up the remains of the eggs with the last of the toast, he had slowed down. “Oh my God,” he said. “That was honestly the best breakfast I ever had. Now I know why they give condemned men a last supper.”

Her phone had been lighting up with occasional incoming texts and she was feeling increasingly anxious. “Look,” she said. “I’m going to start getting calls anytime now. And I need to get back to Washington. So . . .”

“You’re afraid to hear it, aren’t you?”

She thought of several different ways to answer. She decided on, “Maybe.”

“I know this isn’t exactly what you signed up for. At least not what you thought you signed up for. But did you mean what you said on Brite Night? That you don’t represent politicians, you represent people?”

She had meant it. But she hated feeling like he was trying to trap her with it now.

“Yes.”

“In less than two months, you’re going to take a vow to uphold the Constitution. Will it be a real vow? Or just words?”

“Stop trying to manipulate me, Lance.”

“I’m not. Or maybe I am. Look . . . it’s just crazy-making. The information I have . . . I’m not going to live to see thirty. I’ll have paid for this information with my fucking life, and I’m not even going to be able to get anyone to take it seriously! And you want to know the irony? The story that’s going to kill me? Well, if it doesn’t get published, the substance is going to kill everyone else!”

She didn’t answer. He was freaking her out again.

“But look,” he said. “It’s up to you. If you don’t want to know . . . I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll just go. This morning will never have happened. You can forget I was ever here.”

Putting it all on me, she thought. That might be the cleverest manipulation of all.

“You’re not going to be so easy to forget, Lance.”

He smiled. “Should I be flattered? Or is that your way of telling me to get the hell out, and take my explosive information with me?”

A huge part of her wished it was the latter.

She sighed and thought, In for a penny.

“Tell me your explosive information,” she said.

CHAPTER 37

The U.S. has no functional president and has not had one for months, and it’s barely noticeable because there’s a permanent unelected machine that runs the government.

—Glenn Greenwald

For almost a second, Thaddeus didn’t react. Then he shook his head as though in wonder and gave a short, surprised laugh. Well, of course. He was in possession of something he expected to die over. She was his last chance that it wouldn’t all have been in vain, and probably he hadn’t really believed she would help him.

But the truth was, beyond letting him in and ordering him breakfast, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded.

“No, really. You are one in a thousand. One in ten thousand.”

“Don’t sell past the close, Lance.”

He frowned. “Goddamn it. Not everything I do is manipulation, you know. Can’t I just fucking be grateful?”

“Can’t you just fucking tell me already?”

He laughed. The breakfast must have rallied him. Then she started laughing, too. She supposed it was either that, or scream.

Jesus Christ, she thought. I should have stuck with bartending.

They spent a minute just cracking up, the hilarity as surreal as his presence. When the laughter had died off, Thaddeus said, “Okay. Did you ever see the movie The Terminator?”

“Of course.”

“Well, they must not have. Because they’re building Skynet.”

That could have meant a lot of things, though none of them good. “In what way?”

“In the way that puts an AI into the nuclear chain of command.”

Her mind flashed to Montie. He would have liked the construction an AI. Without the indefinite article, it might sound like just intelligence, and intelligence was a good thing, wasn’t it? But an AI made it sound more like a being, an inscrutable entity that would have within its alien consciousness decision-making power over the life and death of human civilization.

She remembered Preston at the Dendrite meeting:

So what’s going to happen when some general decides, “The only thing keeping AI from its full potential is the human in the kill chain. If we could just remove that inefficiency, the AI could really spread its wings.”

Well, now they knew what would happen. They’d remove the inefficiency. After all, if anything should be frictionless, it was nuclear war.

“Let me make sure I understand,” she said. “You’re saying the government is turning over the decision to launch a nuclear attack . . . to an AI?”

“Pretty incredible, right? If only someone had thought to make about six thousand science fiction movies about this very thing, all with extremely bad endings.”

“Why? Why would they do this?”

“Simulations. They’re all showing decision-making response times are too slow.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the president has maybe fifteen minutes to decide whether a nuclear attack is really happening and whether or what to launch in response. And in simulations, the last couple guys demonstrated they were too old to decide properly. Whatever the fuck ‘properly’ means when you’re talking about extinguishing all of humanity.”

“My God. Fifteen minutes is too long for the president to think things over before launching a counterattack?”

“Apparently so. You know, it’s like fast food. It’s never fast enough. First they built restaurants close to the highway, then you had drive-throughs, now you can order ahead with the app and they practically throw your cheeseburger through the window as you roll past. I guess the only thing left is they’ll eat it for you, too. Which is funny, because do you know what they call the president’s nuclear targeting options? The Menu.”

She already knew about the Menu. It was the rest she couldn’t get her head around. “This can’t be true.”

“Oh, it’s true. And in a way, how could it not be? Where do new technologies always get deployed first? The porn industry and the war industry. Sex and death.”

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Now do you get it?” he said. “While I was on the bus, I uploaded the information to the LA Times, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post . . . you name it. But I’d say there’s about a one percent chance any of them will publish it.”

“No. They’d have to.”

“What do you think the papers will do when the government denies it all? Claims it’s a hoax, perpetrated by a Chinese agent, a Russian agent, a high-tech terrorist mounting an attack on the entire international community, and all the other shit they’ve vilified me with? Oh yeah, and now a murderer, too. And tells them that regardless, if they publish, the Chinese and the Russians and North Korea and Iran are going to freak out, and the whole thing could spiral into an unintended nuclear war?”

Again she said nothing. She couldn’t believe the media wouldn’t touch this. How was it possible it was going to be left to her, instead?

Thaddeus fished into his backpack, pulled something out, and held it up for her to see. A thumb drive.

She made no move to take it. “What is that?”

“The whole program. Guess what they call it?”

She shook her head.

“Götterdämmerung. ‘Twilight of the Gods.’ From Wagner’s opera, Der Ring, German for Ragnarok.”

“You listen to opera?”

“I had to look it up.”

“They wouldn’t call it that.”

“Have you seen any of their mission patches? It’s nothing but demons and raptors and whatnot. One of them is an octopus strangling the earth. Or eating or fucking it, it’s hard to know for sure.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you think they’d name domestic bulk surveillance programs Carnivore and Total Information Awareness, but they wouldn’t name AI-controlled nuclear weapons Götterdämmerung?”

She shook her head, not wanting to believe it, unable not to.

“You want to hear the best part?” he said.

“Oh, you haven’t gotten to it yet?”

“The part of the Pentagon that’s implementing the program is called ‘Counterproliferation.’

“Jesus,” she said. But she was thinking, Walls?

But he was at DARPA now, the Strategic Technology Office. Could Götterdämmerung have started before his move? It didn’t matter. She certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Thaddeus about the upcoming meeting.

Thaddeus chuckled. “Right? I mean, why not just name the whole Defense Department the Peace Department?”

She was scared, and his jokes were beginning to irritate her. “It’s not funny, Lance. It’s insane.”

He set the thumb drive on the desk. “If you think about it, it’s only marginally more insane than humans building nuclear arsenals in the first place. Or building AI, for that matter. If we’re crazy enough to create two separate technologies that independently could be species-ending, how could we not be crazy enough to try combining them? Really, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s just two great tastes that taste great together!”

She didn’t respond. She realized she was almost dumbstruck by the magnitude of what he was telling her. And by her dawning awareness that she was going to have to do something about it.

“It’s not encrypted,” he said. “You can plug it into any laptop and peruse the whole thing. They’re going to build AI into a new missile defense system. But offense and defense are two sides of a coin. The same intelligence that tracks the heat signatures, speed, ballistic trajectories, and all that stuff to try to shoot down incoming ICBMs, SLBMs, cruise missiles, hypersonic missiles . . . it’ll also decide how to respond. Without the bother of checking with, you know, an actual human first.”

“What am I supposed to do with this information? You just told me the media won’t touch it.”

“What do you think? Call a press conference. Then it’s coming from you.”

“You’re not making any sense. If even the New York Times won’t publish this story, who’s going to listen to me?”

“Are you kidding? After what you just did to Cliff Brite?”

“Come on, Lance. This is a Hail Mary pass.”

“Isn’t that what you do when you’re going to lose the game anyway?”

She wished she had a good response. But she couldn’t think of anything.

He shook his head and laughed.

“What?” she said.

“It’s just funny that we’re using football terminology. Because the briefcase containing the nuclear codes the president needs to destroy civilization? They call it ‘the football.’ You know, just a game.”

It really was all insane. She’d read somewhere that Stanley Kubrick hadn’t originally intended Dr. Strangelove to be satire, but found the topic couldn’t be approached any other way.

“Yeah,” she said, glad to be momentarily distracted from the insanity by the inanity. “And the card with the codes on it is called ‘the biscuit.’ Just a little snack, in case the president feels peckish. Maybe that’s why he gets to order from the Menu.”

Thaddeus laughed again. “The biscuit is also called the Gold Codes. For some reason they don’t call them the Death Codes. Or Extermination Codes. I guess that would be too obvious.”

He laughed harder. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to do except laugh. But hey, here’s the good news. I’m sure they’re going to kill me before they blow up everyone else, so I really don’t have to worry.”

It was another joke, but it made her wonder. “Why do you even want people to know?” she said. “What difference does it make to you?”

He looked away, and for a long moment didn’t answer. Then he said, “I ask myself that all the time. With everything I do. What has it gotten me? Nothing. What has it changed? I can’t really tell.”

He paused, then went on. “A lot of times I want to give up. The same people I’m trying to help are so ready to hate me. And if they’re so stupid they can’t recognize the way the government and establishment media are manipulating them? If they can’t understand the powers that be are vilifying me personally to distract from the substance of my revelations? If they’re so ignorant they’ve never even read Nineteen Eighty-Four and don’t know who Emmanuel Goldstein was? Then fuck them, they’re getting what they deserve.”

He shook his head and sighed. “But . . . I just can’t stand watching this shitshow and doing nothing about it. And maybe that’s all there is to it. Maybe it’s no more complicated than that. What about you? Why do you do it?”

“I don’t do what you do.”

He laughed. “You do now.”

She gave him a withering look.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “I mean, why did you run for office? No one thought you could win.”

She hesitated, suddenly aware of how naïve it would sound. Even pathetic.

“I thought I could make things better.”

“You don’t think that anymore?”

“If I’m dealing with people crazy enough to delegate nuclear launch decisions to artificial intelligence? Let’s just say the problem is even worse than I thought.”

He laughed. “You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think maybe you and I aren’t so different.”

She thought of Montie, and how he’d made fun of the movie cliché where a character claims not to believe in coincidences.

“You know, Lance, in movies it’s only the villain who says that.”

He laughed again. “All I mean is . . . maybe you can’t stand watching this shitshow and doing nothing about it, either.”

“Maybe.”

“I hope you won’t lose that.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for a moment. He was looking at her in a way she couldn’t read.

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“I just realized this might be the last time I really talk to someone.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. The next time you hear about me, it’ll probably be breaking news about how they found my body somewhere.”

She had no idea how to respond. Everything she came up with felt like bullshit and bromides.

“I don’t want it to end like this,” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t know how else I can help you.”

He glanced at the hint of cleavage exposed at the neck of the robe.

No way, she thought.

“Well,” he said, “before I die, you could help me make love to a brave, beautiful woman.”

“Don’t make me sorry I answered the door, Lance.”

He looked at her body again. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“You sure?”

“What’s the play here, the ultimate pity fuck?”

He smiled. “If that’s what it takes.”

“I thought you didn’t want politicians to be whores.”

“You said it yourself. This wouldn’t be pay, it would be pity.”

“Yeah. Well, the answer is no.”

He smiled. “I didn’t really think you would. But I hope you won’t blame me for trying.”

“Look at it this way, Lance. Just showing up here this morning, you probably fucked me already.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

“Are you still going to Buffalo?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Don’t be suspicious. You’ll freeze. I’m just concerned.”

“Oh. Sorry. I don’t know where I’m going. And it’s better if you don’t, either. All I know is that I’ll let a coin flip decide.”

She thought of Montie. “A friend lent me his jacket,” she said. “You look like you could use an extra. I’d give it to you, but—”

“No. I don’t want you to have to explain something like that. I’ll be fine. I’ll find a Salvation Army store and hope they won’t recognize me. Or . . . whatever. I’ll figure it out.”

Her phone buzzed. She glanced and saw it was a text from Dunne.

“You should go,” she said. “And look. This is a lot to get my head around, okay? I’m not promising anything. And if that’s not good enough, you can take that thumb drive with you.”

“Is that what you want?”

She actually wasn’t sure. “I didn’t say that.”

“Is it what you meant?”

She stood. “Just go. If you get caught here, it won’t matter what I want.”

He shouldered his backpack and they walked to the door. He glanced through the peephole, opened the door a crack, peeked into the corridor, then looked back at her.

“Make things better,” he said. “Valeria.”

And then he was gone.

CHAPTER 38

There are different kinds of truths for different kinds of people. There are truths appropriate for children; truths appropriate for students; truths appropriate for educated adults; and truths appropriate for highly educated adults, and the notion that there should be one set of truths available to everyone is a modern democratic fallacy. It doesn’t work.

—Irving Kristol

Valeria sat with Preston, Montie, Brandon, and Dunne at a polished wooden table in a Pentagon conference room. For the second time in two days, she felt like an imposter, an actor playing a role in someone else’s life.

On all four walls were photographs of iconic military moments. The Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima. President Truman presenting the Medal of Honor to Desmond Doss. A wounded Marine reaching out to comfort a comrade even more grievously wounded in Vietnam. The elder President Bush being greeted enthusiastically by American troops in Iraq. The weight of all that history, embodied by the colossal building around them, was intimidating, probably deliberately so.

Well, remember what they left out. The atomic bombing victims. Kim Phuc and the other children running from a napalm attack in Vietnam. That soldier burned alive in Iraq. Torture at Abu Ghraib.

On the other side of the table was Colonel Walls. The man was probably in his early forties but looked as fit as a college athlete in his uniform—a dark blue suit with a chest-full of colorful ribbons she knew was colloquially known as fruit salad. On each side of Walls was another Air Force colonel. And finally, closest to the door, none other than the Air Force Vice Chief of Staff, General Scott C. Jorgeson, who had claimed he couldn’t stay long but was still a fixture twenty minutes in. As they’d been getting seated, Dunne had assured her sotto voce that an audience of this size and seniority was good news, and that General Jorgeson’s presence was especially promising. Having set up the meeting, maybe he’d been blowing his own horn, but Valeria sensed he was just describing reality. She also sensed that despite the unpleasant end to their evening, Carol Jenkins had worked her contacts as promised. It made Valeria feel vaguely ashamed.

Brandon, on Valeria’s right, was explaining Dendrite’s technology and how it could be integrated into the NGAD program. Now and then Walls or one of the other colonels would interrupt, and though the discussion that typically ensued was so technical it was sometimes hard to follow, she could tell the Air Force guys all had a deep understanding of military AI. They seemed impressed by Brandon’s answers to their questions, and it was encouraging to see how engaged they were. So far, General Jorgeson had said nothing, but she had a feeling that like Kirk with Spock, he preferred to let his subordinates take the lead while he watched and evaluated.

Part of what was making the whole thing so surreal was her place in the center. On her left was Preston, who’d managed not to interject anything provocative, at least so far. To his left was Montie. And on Brandon’s right was Dunne. Walls had subtly directed her to the middle seat, but she hadn’t been aware of how the other positions were arrived at. She hoped Preston wouldn’t read Brandon’s spot as denoting some sort of righthand-man status. Two days earlier, when Valeria had returned to Washington from New York, Preston had been a little . . . not aloof, exactly, but somehow less affectionate than usual. He’d found an apartment but they hadn’t closed on it yet, and at the hotel they’d been using in the meantime, not only hadn’t they made love, but he’d slept well apart from her. He’d said he was just tired, but she knew it was more than that.

As Brandon and the Air Force guys got into the minutiae of adapting the Nerio code to NGAD mission-space requirements, she realized Preston had been right—they were using euphemisms like “collateral damage” instead of “dead civilians” and “aim points” instead of “targets,” but ultimately the goal was more powerful and efficient death and destruction. She glanced at Preston, who was following the conversation without expression. She wished she could tell him she was uncomfortable, too. She wondered whether she’d ever get used to places like this one, whether one day she might feel she belonged in them rather than being a visitor, an outsider, an interloper. And she wondered if that ever happened, whether she’d still be herself.

Brandon was wrapping up. “So now you understand,” he said, “why we call the marriage of Nerio and the Next Generation Air Dominance program, A pilot for a plane for a plane without a pilot.” The same line Dunne had used at the Dendrite meeting. In her peripheral vision, she saw Montie rocking slightly in his seat, and suspected for the second time that the phrase must have originated with him.

The Air Force guys all nodded and looked at General Jorgeson. But Jorgeson was looking at her. She realized it was because he saw her as the equivalent of the ranking officer on her side of the table. Well, whatever else she might castigate the military for, they didn’t seem to have a problem with a woman in charge.

“I know there’s Defense Department resistance to pilotless planes,” she said, looking at each of them in turn. She settled her gaze on Jorgeson. “But someone’s going to get there first. It can be us, or it can be the Chinese.”

She sensed rather than saw Preston’s discomfort. But they were visiting a different culture, and as Brandon had pointed out at the meeting at Dendrite, it behooved them to speak that culture’s language. And besides, was anything she said untrue?

Jorgeson gave her a slightly chilly smile. “I appreciate your willingness to refer to us as the Defense Department, Congresswoman-elect. I seem to remember on the campaign trail some rhetoric about re-renaming us the War Department. A topic you revisited recently on Brite Night.”

Come on, General, I’m trying to make nice. “Well, War Department does have a long and honorable lineage. After all, it was the War Department that won World War Two.”

Walls leaned forward. “And the Defense Department that won the Cold War.”

Preston leaned forward, too, as though they were squaring off. “Actually, America never fought a direct war with the Soviets, thank God. The real credit goes to George Kennan’s policy of containment. So if anything, it was the State Department that won the Cold War.”

“Actually,” Walls said, “when President Reagan announced the Strategic Defense Initiative—”

“Maybe you’re both right,” Jorgeson said. “Regardless, I think we can all agree that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Valeria looked at Preston, trying to communicate as though by telepathy, I swear, if you say Or smell as bad . . .

But Preston held up his hands as though in surrender. Walls was already done—he’d terminated his own sentence the instant Jorgeson had interrupted.

“Anyway,” Valeria said, looking at Jorgeson again. “I’m sure there are many areas we disagree on. But that doesn’t mean we disagree about everything. It doesn’t mean we can’t find common ground in our views about how best to keep America strong and secure. I mean, look at our team. A former Navy SEAL and a longtime peacenik. Two former political adversaries. And yet all of us cooperating for the common good. It’s enough to make you believe anything is possible.”

Everyone laughed—everyone but Preston.

Jorgeson stood. “Thank you for an interesting presentation,” he said. “So interesting I’m afraid it’s put me behind schedule.”

They all came out of their seats. There was a round of handshakes, then Jorgeson was gone. Now would be when they really got down to business. Valeria felt like she’d done a good job, but had it been enough to make peace?

Make peace with the War Department. You can’t fight in the War Room. This is crazy.

But she had to try. Or those five thousand jobs were gone.

They retook their seats. Walls said, “An interesting presentation. No doubt.”

Valeria’s stomach tightened. “Why do I sense a however?”

“Well,” Walls said. “We do have some concerns.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Dunne said. “By all means, let us know your concerns, and we’ll be pleased to address them.”

“That’s a good response,” Montie said. “Humans instinctively look for reasons to say no. If you can get them to articulate their ostensible concerns, a sale becomes more likely.”

Shit. Valeria had been the one who asked Montie to join them. Dunne had warned her Montie was unpredictable, but she wanted him to be there in person. She thought it would help him craft the public spin she’d need to put on her endorsement of the NGAD program.

For a second, the room was completely quiet. Then Dunne laughed. “Thank you for calling that out, Montie. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was being manipulative.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the room. “Colonel Walls,” Dunne continued, “if we can overcome your concerns, would it be fair to say a sale would be more likely?”

Walls dipped his head in acknowledgment. “It would be fair.”

“Great,” Brandon said. “We’re listening.”

Walls nodded. “First, and I think this should be obvious, a ten percent error rate is totally unacceptable. A soldier who killed one of his comrades for every nine dead enemy would be court-martialed. Or worse, before he could do more damage.”

“Agreed,” Brandon said. “But we’re still in the early stages of testing. Nerio isn’t just learning, it’s learning how to learn. Once that threshold is crossed, we expect geometric improvement.”

“And for better or worse,” Dunne said, “we all now know that whatever its early-stage shortcomings, Nerio is still best in class.”

Walls nodded. “Yes, Lance Thaddeus made all that clear before murdering a federal agent.”

At the mention of Thaddeus’s name, Valeria felt a rush of adrenaline. She hoped it hadn’t shown in her face.

“Look at it this way,” Brandon said. “Thaddeus’s leak is part of our bona fides. If we came to you with our own testing data, you might have thought we were blowing smoke. Instead, you’ve got raw intel hacked by an enemy of all things military.”

Dunne chuckled. “If you can’t trust Lance Thaddeus, who can you trust?”

There was a round of light laughter around the room. Brandon said, “So if you enjoy irony as much as I do, you’ll relish the chance to take Thaddeus’s attempt to gum up America’s defense efforts, and use it to accelerate those efforts, instead.”

Walls nodded, whether in agreement with Brandon’s point or in appreciation of the audacity of his having made it, Valeria didn’t know.

“Look,” Walls said. “We’re not here to bullshit you. We’re obviously interested. General Jorgeson wouldn’t have sat in if we weren’t. He tends not to show his cards but I can tell you, if he lets a meeting put him behind schedule, that’s some kind of meeting.”

The way he said it, it sounded hopeful. But there was something . . . too easy about it, and Valeria sensed another however coming. This time, she waited rather than call it out.

Walls looked at her. “Congresswoman-elect, you said it yourself. There’s a lot of institutional resistance in this building to the notion of replacing human pilots. And the ones most insistent about NGAD being a manned fighter platform tend to have four stars on their shoulders.”

“But we all know,” Dunne said, “that dog won’t hunt.”

Montie said, “I think the better analogy would be, That bird won’t fly.”

Dunne dipped his head to concede the point. “Whatever animal we might want to call it, it won’t do what it’s supposed to do. The question isn’t will America have a human piloted sixth-generation fighter, or an AI-piloted one. The question is whether America will have an AI-piloted sixth-generation fighter, or no sixth-generation fighter at all.”

“Or to put it another way,” Preston said, “when we go to war with China, do we want to be using fifth-generation human-piloted fighters—against sixth-generation Chinese AI?”

Valeria looked at him, stunned.

Preston shrugged. “I mean, someone was going to say it. It’s not like we could just, you know, not have a war with China.”

Walls’s people offered a little laugh. Valeria didn’t know whether it was because they thought Preston was trying to be funny, or because they were perplexed by the absurdity of suggesting there wasn’t going to be a war with China.

“You know how it works,” Walls said, looking at Dunne. “There are a lot of layers of bureaucracy above me.”

Dunne nodded. “I’m tempted to try to box you in by saying, But the top brass always listens to your recommendations, right? But I don’t think I could get away with that kind of manipulation just now.”

Montie said, “Getting people to agree that their superiors follow their recommendations is an effective way to engage their egos and get them to commit to buying.”

Dunne laughed. “As I was saying. But Colonel Walls, having listened to your and Brandon’s technical conversation, I can’t imagine there are too many people around here as knowledgeable about the topic as you are. No one’s trying to flatter you in suggesting you must have the ear of the ultimate decisionmakers.”

Walls smiled. “I can sometimes be persuasive. And I myself am persuaded. If we can come to terms on a budget and timing to rapid prototype a Nerio pilot for NGAD, I’ll do all I can to overcome the inevitable bureaucratic resistance.”

Valeria felt another rush of adrenaline—that was it, they’d sold it, they’d won. But an instant later, there was an undertow of doubt. It seemed too easy, like a left feint before the overhand right.

“But here’s what I don’t understand,” Walls continued. “What does any of this have to do with keeping the program in Palmdale?”

Boom. Valeria’s gut tightened. She’d been right to feel uneasy.

Walls looked at Valeria. “Fort Worth is more suitable. And where NGAD is being developed wouldn’t seem to be relevant to the question of getting a Nerio prototype under the canopy.”

Was he smiling? Yeah, he was. He was making it personal, and he wanted her to know it was personal. He was offering Brandon everything Dendrite needed. And offering Dunne everything that would make him a hero at his new lobbying firm. All they had to do was throw Valeria under the bus.

This whole thing had been kabuki, all of it. They didn’t want to be placated. They wanted to punish.

Brandon glanced at Valeria—a look she couldn’t read—then back at Walls. “Palmdale is a one-hour flight from the Bay Area,” he said. “I have a pilot’s license and my own plane, it’s trivial to get back and forth. So in Palmdale, all on-site activities are only an hour away. Fort Worth would be a completely different story—a four-hour commercial flight. A half-hour rideshare on both ends. Add in airport security and you’d be multiplying travel time for my team by a factor of ten.”

Valeria felt a surge of hope, and gratitude. There was no reason for Brandon to side with her. But he was.

Walls raised his eyebrows. “I assume you’ve heard of Zoom?”

Brandon looked at Walls for a moment without responding. There was nothing overt in the look, but it reminded Valeria of how calm he’d been when Preston was being antagonistic in the Dendrite meeting.

“In your experience with project management,” Brandon said, still looking steadily at Walls, “and particularly with rapid prototyping, is Zoom as effective as on-site?”

Valeria realized she was holding her breath. And was surprised by a memory of Héctor, from when she was six or seven, and he’d been teaching her defense:

Breathe, mijita. Tighten up when you get hit, but when you’re bobbing and weaving, breathe.

“On-site is better,” Walls said. “Other things being equal. Here, they’re not. Fort Worth is more suitable.”

Again with the suitable. What bullshit.

“It might be,” Dunne said. “If it didn’t have a Superfund problem. From what I understand, the EPA is considering an investigation. That could lead to a years-long cleanup.”

Dunne was sticking with her, too. But she could tell it wouldn’t be enough.

“I doubt it’ll happen,” Walls said.

Dunne blew a breath through pursed lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure. As you might know, Daschle, Davis, Baishun has among its partners a former EPA administrator. Knows the organization inside and out. He’s confident Fort Worth and Air Force Plant 4 are going to have a problem.”

Walls shrugged. “Well, there’s always Georgia.”

He’s made up his mind. He wants Dendrite, but he doesn’t want you.

Sometimes, she knew, the only way to interrupt a beating was with a clinch.

“How about a break?” she said.

CHAPTER 39

The only lesson of human history is that humans can’t learn the lessons of history.

—Unknown

Valeria, Preston, Brandon, Dunne, and Cranston huddled in the corridor near the conference room, speaking in low voices. Walls and the other colonels had left the room, but the unspoken consensus was that given the risk of bugs, the corridor was safer.

“I’ll keep pressing about the Superfund problem,” Dunne said, looking at Valeria. “Walls is bluffing, he’s not going to doom the entire NGAD program just to make an example of you.”

“They want Nerio,” Brandon said. “That’s the main thing. Walls won’t be able to explain to Jorgeson or whoever that he’s putting the whole NGAD program at risk by pulling it out of Palmdale.”

“Thank you,” Valeria said. “Both of you, I really appreciate it. But you’re wrong. It’s personal to them. And not just to Walls, I can feel it. It wasn’t crazy to think that after everything I ran on, they’d need to be propitiated. But I’m realizing now they want something else.”

“An example,” Preston said.

No one spoke. Valeria looked at Cranston. “Montie, do you see it differently?”

“I think propitiation is a useful word,” Cranston said. “Because the ancients believed the gods could generally be propitiated by burning only a small part of a sacrificed animal. But sometimes more was required.”

“A burnt offering,” Preston said.

Cranston nodded. “When the sacrifice had to be total. But it’s good to use analogies that appeal to the person you’re trying to persuade. For you, Valeria, that’s boxing. So I think the Pentagon wants everyone to know that if you start a fight with them, you don’t get to un-ring the bell. You don’t even get to throw in the towel. You have to fight until someone is knocked out.”

Valeria looked at him. “Even if the fight risks the NGAD program itself?”

Cranston nodded again. “You know I like to consider things in terms of principles, parameters, and preferences. For a player like the Pentagon, any individual program is only a parameter. The principle is power.”

“I should have seen this coming,” Valeria said. “But I didn’t, because hey, they’re the big bad Pentagon and I’m nobody.”

She paused, shaking her head in wonder at the irony. “Well, I’m important to them now. Because if they can instantly render me a one-term, former congressperson, everyone will get the message: Take on the Pentagon and guaranteed you will be annihilated. No wonder they’re intent on swatting me like a fly. After me, no one will ever think of taking them on again.”

She immediately recognized a further irony. Before, she’d been motivated to compromise to achieve a desirable outcome. Now, she realized, she was motivated to compromise more—to avoid a horrible outcome. Horrible not just for herself, but for anyone who might be even tempted to challenge real power.

Was she rationalizing? Justifying further compromise because, if she let them make an example of her, the whole world would be better off if she’d never run at all?

She didn’t care. Just because it was a rationalization didn’t make it untrue.

There has to be something you can do. Has to be.

“I’m not saying I disagree with the overall analysis,” Brandon said. “But I still think we can turn this around. Not today necessarily, but—”

“I know you mean it,” Valeria said. “And again, I’m really grateful. But let’s be realistic. If they hold firm, are you going to tell your brothers you martyred the company you guys founded, out of some kind of misplaced loyalty to me? And even if your brothers saw it the same way, how would you explain to Helios and your other investors?”

Brandon didn’t respond, and Valeria turned to Dunne. “And Fillian, what are you going to tell your new partners? ‘Well, it didn’t work out for our client Dendrite, but man, we sure showed the Pentagon’?”

Dunne said nothing.

“Don’t feel bad,” she said. “It’s not your fault they want to end me. I don’t expect you to commit suicide at the same time.

For some reason, the word suicide made her think of Götterdämmerung. She’d wondered whether the program had begun when Walls was in Counterproliferation. Maybe it was even his brainchild. Everyone said he was obsessed both with nuclear deterrence and with AI. And his reaction during the meeting to the mere mention of Thaddeus had been so visceral . . .

“What do you want to do?” Preston said.

“Let’s go back in,” Valeria said. “One more round.”

CHAPTER 40

Institutions will try to preserve the problem to which they are the solution.

—Clay Shirky

“Colonel Walls,” Valeria said, once they were all seated again. “You said you’re not here to bullshit us. Were you bullshitting when you said that?”

Walls looked at her for a long beat. “No.”

“Then let’s be frank. Fort Worth isn’t about NGAD. It’s about kneecapping me. And I get it, I’m new to politics but I can understand people need to protect their fiefdoms. Still, whatever our priorities, or preferred policies, I’m a patriot. I know you are, too. So here’s what’s confusing me. Would a patriot put America’s defense superiority at risk just to make an example of a new congressperson whose election rhetoric might sometimes have been a bit unruly?”

Walls gave her the hint of a smile. Maybe it was the buzzwords: patriot and defense and superiority.

“That’s a tendentious bit of framing,” he said. “As you can imagine, there might be people in the building whose patriotism makes them leery of those who disparage the nation’s defense infrastructure.”

“What people?” Montie said.

Walls raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

“‘People in the building’ is vague,” Montie said. “Many times when someone wants to conceal his own decision-making power, he’ll pretend he’s beholden to some vague higher authority. The board of directors. His partners. People in the building.”

Walls stared. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

Montie gave a smile—the practiced one. “Is it?”

Walls stared a moment longer. The room felt tense. Valeria thought, Come on, Montie, don’t blow this . . .

Then Walls laughed. He looked at his comrades as though sharing a joke, then at Montie. “Maybe a little. But nobody in this institution, and I mean nobody, makes a decision like this one alone. So unfortunately, it’s not just me you’re dealing with. It’s not even just General Jorgeson.”

He turned to Valeria. “So Congresswoman-elect, if you want to keep the NGAD program in your district, you’re going to have to give the Pentagon a compelling reason. And frankly I haven’t heard one yet.”

“‘A reason,” Valeria said. “You mean, what’s in it for them?”

Walls shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it that way. I’m asking you to help me sell this to some folks who . . . let’s say aren’t necessarily fans of your rhetoric. And don’t get me wrong, they can put up with all kinds of rhetoric, if that’s all it is.”

Valeria shook her head in disbelief. “Trying to help you guys build an AI-powered sixth-generation fighter jet won’t suffice as my bona fides?”

Walls nodded in faux sympathy. “I think they might hold out for more.”

“Like what?” she said.

Walls leaned back in his chair. “That’s exactly the question, isn’t it? And unfortunately, you don’t have an answer.”

Prick. You think you’ve got me on the ropes?

She looked at Walls, then at his comrades, then back to him. “You know, listening to the three of you talk, I realized your AI R&D efforts must be more widespread than I’d first thought. Are you doing anything with AI outside the realm of conventional weapons?”

Walls’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Nothing we can confirm or deny with non-cleared personnel.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Valeria said. She could feel everyone left and right looking at her, wondering what the hell play she was making and where it was coming from, but she kept her gaze on Walls. “A lot of smart people have been sounding the alarm about AI as a potentially species-ending technology. There are calls for greater transparency. And now you just told me the Pentagon is trying to combine—so secretly you won’t even discuss it with elected representatives—one potentially species-ending technology with another.”

“No,” Walls said, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t tell you any such thing.”

“You implied it. And you know, one of my campaign slogans was, Without transparency, there’s no accountability. Without accountability, there’s no democracy. So go ahead. Move the NGAD program. Assuming you can overcome the EPA’s Superfund review, I’ll be a one-term congresswoman and you guys can all feel like heroes for having shown the little upstart who’s the real boss. And I’ll use all the free time you’ve created for me to demand a top-to-bottom audit of all the Pentagon’s AI efforts, including your secret program to delegate nuclear launch decisions to an inhuman, inscrutable artificial intelligence that for all we know is actively hostile to human life.”

Walls’s expression hadn’t changed. In fact, it was so set it might have been a mask.

“What secret program?” he said.

She’d rattled him. She could feel it. If the jab hadn’t stung, he would have laughed. Instead, he was covering up. And the other colonels . . . their faces were as frozen as Walls’s.

“That’s exactly the question you’ll have to answer in congressional hearings, Colonel. Under oath.”

Walls stared at her. “A minute ago, you were fishing for something outside the realm of conventional weapons. Now all of a sudden, you’re certain it has to do with nuclear command and control. Are you just making this up as you go along, Congresswoman-elect, or is there something you want to say to us?”

She hadn’t intended the slip. But it didn’t matter. And anyway, before he’d been toying with her. Now he was taking her seriously.

She leaned forward. “What else could you do with AI and unconventional weapons other than nuclear command and control? Wait, scratch that, now that we’re talking about it, I can imagine AI being used to develop exotic variants of existing pathogens. I’ll make sure that’s one of the areas of inquiry in the hearings, too.”

There was an ominous silence. Valeria thought, Yeah, you probably are fucking around with AI-generated bioweapons. Thaddeus just hasn’t found out about it yet.

“Good luck with that,” Walls said. “I doubt a single term will be enough to even get started.”

“You might be right. On the other hand, I have over twelve million Twitter followers. An equivalent number on Instagram. I get so many podcast and talk-show interview requests Preston can’t even respond to them all. Next time I’m on a show like Brite Night, or on one of the podcasts that are even bigger, I’ll make sure to talk about how all Americans should be deeply troubled by the Pentagon’s secret nuclear and biological AI programs.”

Walls shook his head as though to warn her off. “This kind of speculation is irresponsible.”

Preston said, “The speculation is irresponsible but the program isn’t?”

Walls glanced at Preston, then back to Valeria. “You’re not going to bait me into confirming or denying.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Well, I don’t really need to, do I?”

Walls shook his head again. “You know this is just going to cement the impression you’ve already given the entire top brass, right? That you’re unreasonably, implacably opposed to American national security?”

“Why would I care about that, Colonel? If you’re intent on Fort Worth or Georgia for the NGAD program, what do I have to lose? It’s Götterdämmerung either way.”

He stared at her, his face a frozen mask. She stared back, offering the same kind of chilly smile he’d been feeding her.

How you like me now, Colonel?

She waited, then went on. “Or we could back away from this mutually-assured-destruction macho bullshit, and find an approach that’s a little more win-win.”

“Really,” Walls said. “And what would that be?”

Valeria shrugged. “You tell me. I would have thought that keeping the program in its current location—a location that’s ideal for Dendrite to develop an NGAD AI pilot—would have been more than enough.”

Walls stared at her again. Valeria was afraid someone on her team—probably Preston—would interrupt the silence. But no one did.

After a moment, Walls nodded. “There might be something that could help me sell the Dendrite NGAD partnership, and Palmdale as the proper place.”

“Good alliteration,” Montie said.

Walls glanced at him, then back to Valeria. “You take office in January. That very day, a supplemental defense appropriation bill will be up for a vote—”

Preston threw up his hands. “This is how it’s done,” he said. “You get everyone to sign off on a trillion-dollar military budget—more than the next ten biggest spenders, eight of which are our allies or partners, combined—by bribing one congressperson at a time with a juicy morsel from the trough.”

The colonel to Walls’s right grunted. “Come to the dark side. We have cookies.”

“Hilarious,” Preston said. “I’m guessing you’re not going to quote the follow-up—Welcome to the dark side, you didn’t really believe us about the cookies, did you?”

Walls glanced at Preston. “It’s not cookies. And it’s not a bribe. It’s exactly what your boss called it. A win-win approach.” He looked at Valeria again. “Which is better than Götterdämmerung. Isn’t that right, Congresswoman-elect?”

CHAPTER 41

The budget isn’t propelled by foreign wars. The wars are a consequence of the quest for bigger budgets.

—Andrew Cockburn

Walls stood with two colonels in a Pentagon SCIF. The acronym was for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, but Walls preferred Cone of Silence, from the old show Get Smart. He knew people thought he was humorless, but it wasn’t true, he thought lots of things were funny. He just preferred to keep his emotions to himself.

The colonels were John Franchi and Doug Patteson. Walls had worked with both on the most sensitive projects at DIA Counterintelligence, including certain matters so potentially damaging they weren’t even classified, but rather entirely undocumented and so, within the Pentagon bureaucracy, undiscoverable, unprovable, and unknown.

When Walls had finished the briefing, no one spoke. That was all right. Walls had expected them to consider carefully. If he wanted kneejerk reactions, he could have gone elsewhere.

After a moment, Franchi blew out a long breath. “She referred to it by name? Götterdämmerung?”

Walls had chosen the codename himself and was fond of it. A little heavy-handed, maybe, but also perfect if they had to deny a leak. You seriously believe we’d name a nuclear AI program—even assuming one existed!—something like Götterdämmerung?

“Twice,” he said.

“The program?” Franchi said. “Or just the word? Because it’s an unusual term, but—”

“If you’re asking if she said something like, ‘Do you have a top-secret, Q-clearance, AI-powered nuclear command-and-control program called Götterdämmerung?’ Then the answer is no.”

Patteson looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Aaron. You said yourself it felt like fishing.”

“For a reaction. Anyway if she was fishing, she knew exactly where to drop her line. You think it’s a coincidence that Thaddeus uploaded his hack to all those media outlets just two days ago?”

Patteson frowned. “Why would he confide in her?”

“Let’s talk motive after we talk opportunity. We know he was uploading from a Pittsburgh-to-New York bus before he went dark again at Grand Central Station. Which was right before Velez started mauling Cliff Brite in front of his own audience.”

“Okay,” Patteson said. “He was in Manhattan at the same time she was. So were close to two million other people.”

Walls suppressed his irritation. Strangely, even among realists like Franchi and Patteson, the biggest problem with the Pentagon bureaucracy was timidity. When facts might lead to a difficult decision, the cultural default was to avoid the decision by denying the facts. The military needed warriors and yet rewarded careerists. The only hope was that a similar rot was also at work in China and Russia. But Walls doubted it.

He looked at Patteson, then at Franchi. “Did either of you watch the clip of her appearance on Brite’s show?”

Neither responded, which was the answer he expected. “Well, I did. She went out of her way to defend Thaddeus. Couldn’t have done better if she’d been his press agent or his lawyer. Maybe Thaddeus saw the show. So if you were him. If you were in New York. If you saw the show. Who would you entrust with stolen information about Götterdämmerung?”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” Franchi said. “But why entrust it to anyone? We’ve confirmed he uploaded to half a dozen media outlets before he even arrived at Grand Central.”

Walls looked at him. “How confident would you be those outlets will publish?”

Franchi didn’t respond. Neither did Patteson.

“That’s right,” Walls went on. “Because you’d know our track record of getting media to back off a story, once they understand the grave damage hijacked information can do to national security.”

“But it’s not just media,” Patteson said. “We’ve had at least the same success with folks in Congress. Why would Thaddeus jump from one lame horse to another even lamer?”

Patteson had grown up on a ranch in Wyoming and liked to frame situations in equine terms. He could play the country boy, but he wasn’t stupid. Neither of them was. They just weren’t thinking clearly. Clear thinking in a bureaucracy was like a flickering candle buffeted by a howling institutional wind.

“We have to put ourselves in Thaddeus’s shoes,” Walls said, reminding himself to go slowly because A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still. “Or in his stirrups, if you like. You just survived an attempt on your life—”

Franchi raised his hands in protest. “We don’t know what that was.”

Walls dipped his head. Even within the Cone of Silence, it paid to be careful.

“I’m not talking about objective reality,” he said. “I’m talking about Thaddeus’s perspective. Still, it’s interesting to consider that if the Justice Department had bothered to do its job, Thaddeus could have been neutralized before he got ahold of Götterdämmerung. We could have contained the problem at the source, rather than having to mop up the mess only after it’s reached some editor’s desk at the New York Times.”

Franchi and Patteson nodded in acknowledgment of the point.

“So imagine you’re Thaddeus,” Walls said. “You uploaded stolen information of the gravest consequence via insecure mobile networks. You’re on the run. Desperate. Improvising. Afraid you’re out of options. And you just saw, maybe on a television somewhere, Congresswoman Velez’s undeniably compelling performance, including a ringing defense of your character and your actions, on Cliff Brite’s show. Might you seek her out?”

There was a long pause. Patteson said, “You might. But . . . we don’t know.”

“So you think the two references to Götterdämmerung were a coincidence?”

Patteson glanced at Franchi, then back to Walls. “Aaron. We’re talking about . . . she’s a congresswoman.”

“Congresswoman-elect.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Relax. I’m not proposing anything. And yes, there is a difference, in the sense that with Velez, we don’t have a track record to go on. Only hostile rhetoric.”

Franchi shook his head. “I don’t know. From everything you just told us, it sounds like we might have misjudged her. The Sting Magazine hit piece, the photos from that bar . . . maybe we never needed to undermine her. What did any of it accomplish, anyway? If anything, it made her stronger.”

“And you think that’s a good thing?”

Franchi shrugged. “We thought we were dealing with an ideologue. But it sounds like she’s a realist. Look, you’re right that we should be putting ourselves in Thaddeus’s shoes. But put yourself in hers, too. A few months ago, she was a nobody. A bartender. Now she’s a celebrity. You don’t think she’s already attached to that? You don’t think she’s motivated to do whatever she needs to keep what she’s won?”

Walls was getting frustrated. He hadn’t expected this kind of resistance. Not from these two.

Patteson chuckled. “Come on, Aaron. You know how it is with politicians. They tell voters what voters want to hear, and then they do what we want done. Why would Velez be any different?”

Walls looked at him. “So neither of you thinks she’s a risk to Götterdämmerung.”

Patteson shook his head. “She’s a feisty filly, no doubt. But the way I see it, the threat to move NGAD gentled her. She’s bridled now. Saddled. Her mustang days are over.”

Walls sighed. “Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Franchi said with a laugh.

Walls laughed, too. “That’s fair.”

And it was fair. All of it. Because of course there was some theoretical chance that Velez had never met Lance Thaddeus, and that her twice using the word Götterdämmerung had been a coincidence. And there was a much better chance that even if Thaddeus had told her about Götterdämmerung, she would respond to the customary incentives and disincentives and could be counted on to do the right thing.

So a fair point, but the wrong analysis. Because there were times when if there was any chance of a given outcome, you had to treat it as every chance of that outcome. That is to say, you had to act as though the chance wasn’t a chance at all, but rather a certainty. And if this was true for the possibility of terrorists acquiring weapons of mass destruction—and it unquestionably was—then it was at least as true for protecting American nuclear dominance, as well.

Franchi and Patteson understood all this as well as he did. The difference was, they weren’t willing to accept what the understanding required.

CHAPTER 42

You don’t change the machine. The machine changes you.

—Caitlin Johnstone

Valeria sat on a box filled with household items, sipping red wine from a plastic cup. The glow from a streetlight was just enough to make out the apartment’s walls, a suitcase, and, in the corner, a queen mattress, made up but as yet unslept in.

It was the small apartment Preston had rented, on Constitution Avenue in northeast Capitol Hill, about a ten-minute walk from the Rayburn Office Building where she’d soon be working. An old brick building, two stories plus a collection of basement units with barred windows peeking halfway up behind a row of shrubbery, as though at some point the weight of the building had caused it to sink into the ground. Preston had told her the apartment had great natural light, but she hadn’t seen any of that yet, having moved in—if that was the right phrase for kicking off her pumps and dropping a suitcase—only an hour earlier, just after the sun had set.

They were on the second floor, a half flight of stairs up from the front entrance and then another full flight after that. Well, they wasn’t exactly applicable anymore. She’d conceded to Walls and agreed to sign the new supplementary defense budget, and it seemed for Preston, that was a bridge too far.

Brandon and Fillian had been exultant as they’d exited the Pentagon, and effusive in their praise for how she’d handled Walls. Montie had been harder to read, but that was nothing unusual. Preston, though, had sulked. And while she could find his sulks endearing, even sexy, this time the behavior was exasperating. What was she supposed to do? Preston himself had pointed out during the internal meeting at Buck’s that programs like Future Combat Systems, Littoral Combat Ships, and NGAD were zombies, functionally unkillable. The NGAD money had already been allocated, so what purpose would have been served in letting the Pentagon give it to Nancy Byer in Fort Worth instead of to Valeria?

But Preston’s silence had been so conspicuous that Fillian, Brandon, and Montie had come up with excuses to skip the celebratory drink they’d been talking about, and had left them alone in front of the Pentagon City Metro Station. And even after the others had disappeared down the Metro escalator, Preston wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t even look at her. The two of them had stood there for a long time, wordless, the late afternoon sun lighting up the tops of nearby high-rises, deepening shadows advancing along the street. She’d waited, growing more and more exasperated.

“I had to,” she’d finally said after realizing Preston wasn’t going to go first. “What difference does it make? The bill’s going to pass no matter what. They always do.”

“You know why,” he said. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

She didn’t answer. But she knew what was coming.

“That’s right,” he went on. “They’re about to stick the country with another monster supplementary war bill. So they want to say, ‘Even antiwar Valeria Velez is behind this!’ And you just let them.”

Her exasperation ratcheted up to anger. “We’ve already had this conversation. I didn’t wear out four pairs of shoes just to be a martyr.”

“You don’t have to sell that story to me, Val. I’m the one who came up with it.”

“I’m the one who did it, Pres. Look, would you rather win half, or lose all?”

He struggled for a moment, either for words or to keep a grip on himself, she didn’t know.

“I told you,” he said. “After what you did on Brite Night, donations are going through the roof. The number-one theme is how we need to stop stuffing the maw. That’s even more popular than a UBI and the For The People Act you pitched. So if you turn around now and sign that bill, these people aren’t going to just think they’ve been conned. They’ll feel betrayed.”

She knew he was trying to help, but it was only making her angrier. “You know who else is going to feel betrayed? The people who just elected me, if I put five thousand of them out of work. And all the money in the world won’t help if I have an enraged army campaigning against me inside my own district!”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Do you really think the Pentagon is fucking around with AI and nukes? And bioweapons?”

She wasn’t ready to tell him about Thaddeus. Things were just too fraught.

“Don’t you?” she said.

“If I had to guess? Of course they are. They’ve already done neutron bombs, cobalt bombs, the Holmesburg Prison experiments . . . this shit cries out for civilian oversight and accountability, and instead of pressing for that, you traded it away to—”

“To stay in office long enough to actually get something done about a universal basic income!”

“I don’t care! What these Dr. Strangelove lunatics are doing in the dark could exterminate all of humanity, you said it yourself, you called it potentially species-ending, and you treated Congressional oversight as just a chit to be traded away for a few political bennies!”

A bus went by, gears grinding. She waited for it to pass, trying to keep a leash on her anger. And failing.

“You were right when you got me to run, Pres. I’m good at this. And I’m going places. Do you want to come with me? Or are you going to get all boo-hoo every time we disagree?”

Clusters of commuters passed, civilian clothes, military uniforms, some heading down the escalators to the station, others emerging onto the sidewalk. Preston watched them, looking everywhere but at her.

Finally, he dug into one of his pants pockets and pulled out a pair of keys. “This is for the place I found,” he said. “The lease is signed, I took possession this morning. I was going to surprise you, but . . . maybe this is a good moment for us to . . . I don’t know. Cool off on the personal stuff.”

She looked at the keys. Her main surprise was that she wasn’t surprised. Was she even . . . relieved? Had she sensed this was inevitable, and on some level wanted him to be the one to initiate it?

“I’m sorry, Pres.”

“The front door of the building has a digital combination entry—eight, six, four, two. The keys are for the apartment.”

She could see he was trying to hide his hurt. Maybe he’d expected her to argue. Even hoped for it.

“I’ll still be your chief of staff,” he said. “I mean, if you want that.”

“Of course I do.” Did she? Or was it just that she couldn’t bear hurting him?

“The place is unfurnished. I bought a mattress, though. Sheets, pillows, a comforter . . . and towels and kitchen stuff. I didn’t have time to get a table and chairs.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. She said, “Where are you going to be?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Another silence. He said, “I’ll see you at the transition office tomorrow, okay?” And then he’d walked away.

The apartment was as he’d described—plus the bottle of wine, around which he’d wrapped a ribbon, doubtless imagining the two of them opening it to toast the start of their new life together. A bottle she was now about a third of the way through. Well, that was fine. A little wine would help her sleep. That, and the sweats she’d changed into. Her favorites, once San Jose State Spartans blue but now faded and torn and probably ready for decommissioning. But they were so cozy, the top soft enough to be cashmere, the elastic waistband on the bottoms so sprung they’d fall down if the drawstring came loose, and without underwear more comfortable than any pajamas.

The intercom buzzer rang. She thought, Pres?

Could he have come to apologize? She doubted it. Her words had been too cutting. Even if he’d been inclined to smooth things over, his pride wouldn’t let it happen this fast.

Maybe he couldn’t find a place to stay? But no, there were plenty of hotels in the area, and even if he’d needed help paying for one, he’d ask his parents before he came crawling back to her.

She finished what was left in her cup and set it on the floor, then stood, the wooden boards squeaking beneath her bare feet. She realized she was quite buzzed. Yeah, a third of a bottle of wine will do that.

She walked to the intercom. It was a black-and-white video unit, and in the monitor she saw a man in a hoodie standing on the concrete stoop outside the building’s exterior door. The camera was to the left and he was facing the doors, so she couldn’t make out his face, but he was holding a bouquet of flowers. Maybe Preston was trying to apologize after all.

She pressed the talk button. “Yes?”

The man peered through the glass panes as though trying to divine where Valeria’s voice was coming from. “I have a flower delivery for Valeria Velez.”

Yeah, it must have been Preston. No one else even knew this was where she’d be living now.

Still, before buzzing him in it seemed sensible to be sure. “Who are they from?”

“They don’t tell me that. There’s a card, you want me to open it?”

It had to be Preston. She didn’t know why she was hesitating. Maybe she didn’t want him to apologize. The breakup hurt, but it was also a relief.

“That’s okay,” she said. She almost pressed the door open button, then paused.

“Actually,” she said, “yeah, if you don’t mind.”

The guy shrugged. He pulled an envelope free from where it was tucked amid the flowers. Valeria noticed he was wearing work gloves. Probably some of the bouquets had thorns on the stems. He fumbled with the envelope for a moment, then got it open and looked at the card inside.

“Preston Jante,” he said.

Yeah, she’d figured. She supposed it was good of him. Magnanimous. Still, if she was being honest, that he’d caved so fast seemed a little . . . weak.

She almost pressed the door open button again, but stopped, again unsure why she was hesitating.

Preston had never given her flowers before. Well, there was always a first time, and probably a breakup made sense as the occasion. Though he must have found a shop pretty fast. After all, they’d left the Pentagon only a couple hours earlier. Were there even places open in the evening? It wasn’t that late, and she didn’t know much about floral deliveries, but she’d always assumed it was more a morning thing.

She started to reach for the button again. For some reason, her mind flashed to Lance Thaddeus’s thumb drive. She’d hidden it in her suitcase before leaving the Sheraton in New York, and though she’d confirmed its presence several times since then, she hadn’t moved it. Maybe it would have been safer to keep it on her person rather than in the suitcase while it was checked with the bellman at the hotel, but she certainly couldn’t have risked taking it into the Pentagon, the belly of the beast. Still, she knew her reluctance to take it out of the suitcase wasn’t only about security. The truth was, she was almost afraid to touch it.

“What shop are they from?” she said. She didn’t really know why she was asking. She just felt like she should know a little more before letting the guy in.

“She Loves Me,” the guy said. “Near Union Station. Look, I’ve got some other deliveries still to make, so . . .”

“No, it’s okay. Just give me a minute.” She took her finger off the talk button and typed She Loves Me DC into her phone’s browser. There it was, near Union Station, just as the guy had said. And they were open until seven. It was after seven now, but maybe their delivery people kept working until later. Like the bar—last call was one thing, closing time was another.

Even so. She pressed the talk button again and said, “You know what? I’ve got something on the stove. Can you just set the flowers on the stoop and I’ll get them later?”

“I can’t leave them,” the guy said. “Somebody needs to sign.”

She wanted to let him in. It was almost an urge. Because if she let him in, it would be the normal thing to do, and if she did the normal thing, it would prove an abnormal thing wasn’t happening.

Which of course it wasn’t. She was being ridiculous.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Hold on.”

She stepped into the pumps she’d kicked off earlier and went out, taking care to extend the deadbolt before easing the door back so it wouldn’t close completely. She wasn’t used to the apartment yet, and didn’t want to take a chance on getting locked out.

On the way down the stairs, still thinking she was being ridiculous, she hit Preston on the phone’s speed dial.

One ring. Two. She kept going down the stairs.

Come on, Pres . . .

A third ring. His failure to pick up was making her anxious. All she wanted was confirmation: Yeah, I felt bad, I sent you flowers.

A fourth ring. She came to the landing.

Jesus, if he sent flowers, wouldn’t he be waiting for you to call?

Maybe he’s trying to play it cool. Not seem too eager.

What would be the point of playing it cool, he already would have shown his hand with the flowers—

His voicemail cut in. Hi, it’s Preston. Sorry I can’t take your call. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

She paused on the landing. “Pres, did you send me flowers? Call me back. It’s important.”

She clicked off and turned into the lobby. There he was, the hoodie guy, on the other side of the glass doors, holding the flowers in one hand. He saw her and nodded.

She realized she was walking slowly. She really didn’t want to open the door. Val, what is wrong with you? It’s just flowers, he’s actually holding a bouquet.

Ten feet. Five. Three. The guy gave a little wave. She started to reach for the door handle.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced and saw it was Preston. She stopped and held up a Just a sec index finger to the flower guy, clicked answer, and brought the phone to her ear.

“Hey,” Preston said. “I saw you called—”

“Pres, listen—”

“It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“No, no—”

“I don’t know what to do, Val. I’m trying to tell myself this is right, but I feel like—”

“Pres, did you send me flowers?”

“What?”

She stared at the flower guy. He gestured to the bouquet. Do you want these or what?

“Did you send me flowers? At the new apartment.”

“What? No.”

An elderly man was coming up the walkway behind the flower guy. The flower guy glanced back at him and stepped aside.

“Are you sure? Tell me the truth. Please.”

She realized she was backing away from the glass doors. She hadn’t even intended to.

“What are you talking about? Should I have? Would it have made a difference?”

Holy fucking shit.

Everything seemed to slow down. Her heart started pounding. The elderly man leaned forward and began inputting the entry combination into the door lock. The flower guy watched him, then looked at Valeria.

“Val?” Preston said.

She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Her mouth had gone completely dry.

Think Valeria, think—

“Pres,” she managed to say. “Call 911. I think there’s an intruder.” She kept backing toward the landing.

“An intruder?”

Jesus Christ, how hard is this to understand? “Yes! Here, at the new apartment. Call 911, okay?”

“Okay, okay, you want me to hang up?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, I’m doing it. I’ll call you right back.”

The line went dead. Valeria kept backing away. Run Val, what the hell is wrong with you—

The elderly guy opened the door and came in. The flower guy was right behind him.

Valeria’s mental paralysis broke. She spun toward the landing, turned into it, and took the stairs three at a time, certain the flower guy was right behind her, about to grab her—

She yanked open the apartment door, went through, and slammed it behind her. It bounced back open—

She heard footsteps coming fast on the stairs—

Fuck, the deadbolt—

She retracted the deadbolt, shoved the door shut, and twisted the deadbolt closed. Then she backed away, staring at the door, her breath heaving in and out.

The lights were still off in the apartment, and she could see a glow from the landing leaking through at the bottom of the door. A shadow moved into it.

She heard a knock and looked around wildly for something she could use as a weapon. She saw nothing.

Preston said he’d bought kitchen stuff. A knife?

She started pulling things from inside the box she’d been sitting on. A wooden spoon. A cheese grater. A citrus press—

Jesus Christ Pres did you buy everything but a fucking knife?

A voice came from the other side of the door. “Can you just sign for these flowers, please? I’ve got six more stops and I want to go home.”

The wine bottle. She gave up on the box and grabbed the bottle around the neck.

The doorknob turned. Left. Right. Only a little—it was locked. But the guy was really trying to get in—

Without thinking, Valeria shouted, “Preston didn’t order any flowers!” Her voice sounded weirdly high. “I just talked to him and he already called 911. And you’re being recorded. So whoever you are, you might want to get out of here right fucking now!”

The doorknob turned again. Left. Right.

It stopped. She stared at the shadow at the bottom of the door, her heart booming so hard she could feel the pulse in her neck.

And suddenly the shadow was gone.

She ran to the front window and looked through the blinds. A moment later, she saw him, rounding the corner of the building into the alley adjacent.

She dashed to the bedroom and looked down through the side window. For a moment she couldn’t see him, but he reappeared as he reached the back of the building. And then he was gone.

She stood there for a moment, staring down at the empty alley, confused to the point of shock. What was that? Had it even happened?

Her knees started shaking, then her hands.

“What the fuck?” she said aloud. Her voice was still high, but somehow hearing it was reassuring. “What the actual fuck?”

She needed to think. The police would be here soon. What would she tell them? What would they say? The whole thing felt so crazy . . . would she sound crazy?

If the video was recorded, you’ll have proof.

But was it recorded? And even if it was . . .

She had so many enemies. The shit they were constantly pumping out about her online . . . Comrade Valeria. Drama queen. Attention whore.

Would she get accused of having invented this . . . this whatever it was? Even if there was a recording, they’d say she hired a crisis actor, something like that. The man’s face had been obscured; probably they’d claim it was Preston.

Think Valeria, think . . .

Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her so badly she almost dropped it.

She looked. Preston. She clicked answer. “Hey.”

“I just called 911. They’re on the way. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I think . . . I think I made a mistake.”

“What?”

“I’m drinking that wine you left here. And . . . I guess I’m upset, and I got paranoid. I misunderstood. The flowers weren’t for me.”

“Well, who were they for?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for the drama. I overreacted.”

“It’s okay. But maybe it’s good the police are coming. You can just tell them—”

“No, I don’t want to tell them anything. If this gets out, people will say it was a stunt.”

“No, nobody’s going to—”

“Yes, they will, Pres, you know it. Just call them back. Tell them it was a mistake.”

“I don’t even know if you can take back a 911 call. There might be some kind of protocol.”

“Try, okay?”

“Are you sure? I feel like—”

“I’m sure. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have called you.”

“No, you absolutely should have. And I should have sent you flowers. Or at least . . . I shouldn’t have let you move in there alone tonight.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s obviously not.”

“It obviously is. Look, just call them back, okay? I don’t want them showing up here.”

“Okay. I’m going to call them, and then I’ll call you right back.”

He clicked off.

She looked down through the window again. The alley was deserted. She went to the living room and checked the front. Nothing.

But something had happened.

Maybe they were just trying to get her to overreact. So tomorrow’s news could be, Drama Queen Velez Sics Police On Dangerous Floral Intruder.

But it felt worse than that. How had they known she was here? Preston had signed the lease just that morning. And she’d moved in not an hour earlier.

Before she could think better of it, she texted Brandon. Got a minute to talk?

She looked out the window again. A woman was walking a dog. Valeria watched, but the woman didn’t even glance at the building. In a moment, she was gone.

Her phone buzzed. She looked and was disappointed to see it was Preston.

“Hey,” she said.

“I called them back. Apologized and told them it was a mistake, that I misunderstood you. So . . . they’re not coming.”

“They let you cancel the call?”

“Yes. Maybe they’re busy and let it slide, I don’t know. But Val, what the hell?”

“I’m sorry. I got freaked out.”

“I feel like I should come over there.”

“No, don’t.” It came out more harshly than she’d intended, and she added, “I mean, you don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“You didn’t sound fine.”

Her phone buzzed again. She looked and saw it was Brandon.

“Let’s talk more tomorrow,” she said. “All right? I really am okay.”

CHAPTER 43

You better wake up. The world you live in is just a sugar-coated topping. There is another world beneath it. The real world.

—Blade

A half hour later, Valeria was staring through the front windows, Brandon beside her, the whole thing beginning to feel surreal. The lights were still off so that from inside they could see out, while anyone outside couldn’t see in. But Brandon had already checked the perimeter. He’d found nothing and no one.

She’d given him the background—the breakup, arriving here alone, thinking the flowers must have come from Preston. She thought he’d be doubtful about some of the details—Are you sure he asked for you by name? Are you sure he said the flowers were from Preston? But he hadn’t. Even though she told him she’d drunk a lot of wine, he hadn’t questioned her story.

“Maybe the video intercom is recorded?” she said. “I was bluffing when I told him that, but I actually have no idea.”

He raked back his hair, which was still wet from the shower—the reason, he’d told her, that he hadn’t responded right away to her text. And he was wearing the same button-down shirt and khaki pants he’d worn at the meeting earlier, now minus the blue blazer and tie.

“I don’t think there’s a recording,” he said.

“Why?”

“First, that unit is old. Not as old as the building, but black and white? A grainy feed? That’s decades ago. These days doorbell cameras are at least 1080p. With infrared and a birds-eye view.”

“But they still had video recording back then.”

“More in banks and commercial installations. But . . . you said Preston signed a lease just this morning?”

“That’s right.”

“For both of you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, start with, they knew about the lease. They knew you guys were taking possession today.”

“How?”

“I doubt Preston signed a paper document. It would have all been online. And for anyone with the right capabilities, if a transaction is online, it’s like reading something in the newspaper.”

“God.”

“So now, if they read the lease, and know the building, it’s trivial to see if whoever owns the property is paying someone to record video, or if they ever paid anyone to set up recording in-house. If they can’t find any such transaction, they’re not positive. But they’re pretty confident.”

“But Preston was supposed to be here. How would they . . . I mean, are you saying they knew we had a fight?”

“No. But tracking phones is SOP. So whether or not they knew about the fight, they would have known you were here alone and that Preston is wherever he is. Not a crazy leap for them to think if a ‘deliveryman’ showed up with flowers from Preston, you’d let him in. What they didn’t count on was that you’d sense something was off. Most people ignore that warning feeling. You didn’t.”

Along with fear and disbelief she felt a wave of revulsion. “Our relationship isn’t even public knowledge.”

“Maybe not public knowledge. But metadata from phone records . . . if you guys were typically staying together at night, they know you’re in a relationship. Or were.”

She shook her head, still not quite believing it. “They could put this whole thing together that fast?”

He nodded. “It’s not as hard as you might think.”

“What were they going to do?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

But she sensed he did know, or at least that he had a good idea.

“You can tell me,” she said. “I’m not a Navy SEAL, but I don’t need a fainting couch, either.”

He laughed softly. “No, no one’s going to accuse you of needing a fainting couch.”

He paused, then looked at her. “This feels like a hit to me. How exactly they planned to do it, I don’t know, but they obviously wanted you to buzz him in. Afterward, the police would have nothing, just a theory that it might have been someone you trusted, because there’d be no sign of forced entry. Maybe they wanted to make it look like a robbery. Maybe a rape.”

She felt all the warmth drain out of her. “Jesus Christ.”

“I could be wrong.”

“You don’t think you are, though.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is he going to come back?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You made it clear you were on to them. That by itself is a lot—if you’re planning an ambush and then realize the opposition is expecting you, you’re almost always going to back up. Also, even though initially they must have been confident the intercom wasn’t recording, you made them uncertain. And finally, if they’re monitoring cellphones, they know you’re not alone now.”

“But they’ll see your phone. They’ll know you’re here. What if they come after you?”

He shrugged again. “What’s that line from Watchmen?” He lowered his voice to a growl. “‘I’m not locked in here with you. You’re locked in here with me.’”

It was a good Rorschach imitation and she couldn’t help laughing a little. “I guess SEALs really do have a swagger.”

He gave her a small smile. “What I can’t figure out is why. What’s the motive?”

She didn’t answer. She was thinking of the thumb drive in her suitcase.

“I know you’ve made some enemies,” he said. “I mean, your campaign basically called for defunding the military.”

“We never called—”

“I’m not talking about what you said. I’m talking about what was heard. But the meeting today should have put all that to rest. You know, ‘She runs a little hot, but we can do business with her.’ So . . . some other faction you’ve threatened? Someone still going only on a first impression?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling like she was about to jump from a high cliff into dark water.

“You want to help me finish a bottle of wine?” she said.

CHAPTER 44

The kayfabe in politics is that there are two parties competing for power.

—Neema Parvini

There was only the one box, and her suitcase would have been too uncomfortable a seat, so Valeria and Brandon sat across from each other on the mattress in the dim bedroom. She told him about Thaddeus and Götterdämmerung, and as soon as she was talking the fear began to bleed off. After not very long, it felt weirdly like being back in the dorm at SJSU, where it had been weed more than wine, and where political bull sessions sometimes went on until nearly daylight.

When she was done, he said, “I thought that was a slip during the meeting. When you were asking about AI-powered weapons of mass destruction, and then switched to AI-powered nuclear command and control. But you recovered so well, I figured I was wrong.”

“No, you were right, it was a slip.”

“But when you said Götterdämmerung—”

“I needed to make sure he understood.”

He nodded. “Well, I’d call the bouquet delivery message received.”

“You think he knows I got it from Thaddeus?”

He shrugged. “They tracked him to Pittsburgh. They could have tracked him to New York.”

“He said he was being so careful.”

“Look, Thaddeus is smart, but no one’s a magician. It took them a while, but eventually they got to bin Laden. And that was a long time ago. These days their capabilities are much more far-reaching.”

For all she knew, Brandon was one of the guys who killed bin Laden. She was glad he was using they and not we.

“So they knew Thaddeus was in New York,” she said. “And maybe they had some way of accessing the hotel’s security cameras, or sidewalk cameras, or whatever, and then they knew for sure. And decided they needed to do something about it. Fast.”

“That would be my working theory, yeah.”

She blew out a big breath. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you kidding? It’s obvious. You call a press conference. As soon as you can. Isn’t that what Thaddeus wanted? If we’re right and the only reason they’re coming at you is to keep this Götterdämmerung insanity under wraps, going public would obviate their motive.”

She didn’t answer. Imagining a Götterdämmerung press conference made her so anxious it was almost worse than the fright of the flower guy. Or whatever he actually was.

“And even if it didn’t,” Brandon went on, “it would stay their hand, because what are they going to do, come at you again after you’ve blown the whistle? Too much suspicion and too much scrutiny.”

“So you think Götterdämmerung is insane, too?”

“Of course I do. Anyone who hasn’t been living in a Dr. Strangelove movie would think so. That doesn’t mean I approve of Thaddeus stealing it. But right now, that’s beside the point.”

“If he’d given the information to you, what would you do?”

He looked into his cup. “I don’t know. Maybe return it to the Pentagon.”

“But you don’t think I should?”

He looked at her. “You tried to propitiate them today, remember? And they weren’t interested. You think the second time will be the charm?”

She didn’t answer. She knew he was right. And that she was being foolish, maybe worse than foolish.

He finished what was left in his cup, then said, “So I think a press conference is the only good option. What am I missing?”

She sighed. “They’ll vilify me.” She hadn’t planned the words, they just started coming out on their own. “They’ll say I aided and abetted a traitor. A Chinese spy, a Russian spy, which is how they’ve tried to de-position him. That I’m a spy or a traitor, too. That I revealed nuclear secrets to our enemies and put the whole nation, maybe the whole world, at risk.”

“So what?”

“So I’ll lose everything.”

“Everything? What are we talking about here, reelection?”

“Yes.”

“That’s two years out. Anyway, would you rather lose your life?”

She tried to think of something. There had to be another way. There had to be.

“You’re right,” she said. “It didn’t work today, when I tried to propitiate them. But maybe now is different.”

“Different how?”

“You said it yourself. They realized they can do business with me. And really, you were trying to be gentle when you put it that way, right?”

He looked away.

“Brandon. Didn’t you really mean, ‘She showed us she can be suborned’?”

He looked at her. After a moment, he nodded. “Maybe something like that.”

“And you said now that they know I’m on to them, it increases the uncertainty, the risks, of trying again. So maybe . . . maybe the cost-benefit equation has changed?”

There was a long pause. He said, “It’s not a guarantee.”

“Neither is a press conference. So what’s your real objection?”

He picked up the bottle from next to the bed and extended it toward her.

She shook her head. “You finish it. I’ve had more.”

He poured the remainder into his cup and took a good-sized swallow. “Look,” he said, setting the bottle on the floor, “I know the government classifies too much. Way too much. But it’s not up to the Lance Thaddeuses of the world to decide what to unilaterally declassify.”

“But how else—”

“If we get into an argument about that, you’ll probably win. I’m talking about something else.”

She raised her hands in surrender. “Okay.”

“With my beliefs, returning the thumb drive would make sense. It would be consistent. But for you . . .”

He paused, then said, “I mean, it’s one thing to play ball on NGAD. I can imagine the rationalizations and I’m not even sure they are rationalizations. You have a responsibility to your constituents. The money’s already allocated. All that. But this . . . does this really feel like that to you?”

They were quiet for a moment. She wanted him to understand, but she didn’t know how to explain.

“I can see only three ways this ends,” she said. “One is, they kill me. And that’s not good.”

She was trying for light absurdity, but Brandon didn’t laugh.

“Two is, I go public, and it kills me politically. And that’s not so great, either.”

He nodded but said nothing.

She smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a really good listener?”

He gave her a small smile back. “Depends on who’s talking.”

She laughed a little. “I should be more freaked out than I am, right? I’m glad Preston left a bottle of wine.”

“This is Preston’s wine?”

“Well, I think he was expecting he and I would share it, but yeah.”

“You think you guys will work it out?”

She raised her hands palms up, then let them drop. “I don’t know. What was I saying?”

“You see three ways this can end.”

“I told you you’re a good listener. So the first two . . . they win. Both first-round knockouts. But the third . . . if I stand down on Götterdämmerung, that’s a draw. Which isn’t great. But it beats losing.”

He blew out a breath. “Maybe.”

They were quiet again. She said, “So . . . maybe I should call Walls?”

“Now?”

“He gave everyone his number.”

He nodded, the way she sensed he did when he was thinking something through.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” he said. “If only to feel him out. Sure. Put him on speakerphone.”

She shook her head. “But then—”

“If they’re monitoring phones, he already knows I’m here. Which is fine. I want him to know.”

“Why?”

“I want him to understand you’re not alone. Not tonight, not in general.”

She was so moved by that she had to wait a second before responding.

“Look,” she said. “I know you’re tougher than Rorschach. But—”

“It’s not that. I have credibility with these guys you don’t. I’ll be implicitly vouching for you.”

Part of her wanted to say no. Because it felt like too much to ask.

Instead, she blew out a big breath, then picked up her phone. “What do you think I should say?”

He smiled. “Whatever I might come up with? Yours will be better.”

CHAPTER 45

I slowly realized the military was so strong in our society that probably no president could stand against it.

—Justice William Douglas

“Congresswoman-elect,” Walls said. “This is a surprise.”

Did he sound a little . . . thrown? She wasn’t sure. She swallowed and glanced at Brandon. “Colonel Walls. I’m here with Brandon. I have you on speakerphone.”

Brandon said, “Hello, Colonel.”

Silence.

“That was a good meeting today,” she said. “A good . . . reset, I thought.”

Again Walls said nothing.

“It reminded me of the importance of dialogue,” she said. “Of how even for the gravest misunderstandings—maybe even especially for the gravest misunderstandings—people of good will can work things out. If they can just find common ground.”

Again he said nothing, but his silence felt . . . careful. Maybe her calling had off-balanced him. Maybe he was afraid she was recording the conversation.

She glanced at Brandon. “I’m not saying anyone needs to send a bouquet of flowers. Just that it’s important to listen.”

She stopped. If he wasn’t going to respond, she’d have to figure out something else.

After a long pause, Walls said, “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Why don’t we meet for coffee tomorrow?” she said. “Just to keep the dialogue going, to make sure there are no misunderstandings.”

“Why not tonight?” Walls said.

Brandon shook his head.

“Tonight won’t work,” she said. “How about first thing tomorrow?”

“Where?”

Brandon said, “You’ll be at the Pentagon?”

“Yes.”

Brandon nodded. “Pentagon City Metro. Sidewalk at the top of the escalator, across from the Ritz Carlton Hotel. Zero eight hundred.”

“You’ll be there, too?” Walls said.

Brandon looked at Valeria. “You bet.”

“All right,” Walls said. “See you there and then.”

Valeria looked at the screen and saw that Walls had clicked off. She dropped the phone on the bed and for a moment the two of them just sat there in the glow from the streetlight outside. She thought of a line from that poem by Yeats—of night and light and the half light—and realized she was pretty buzzed.

And then she started laughing. “Well, that was weird. Never expected to be talking to my attempted assassin before.” She didn’t know why she was making light of it. Maybe she was trying to comfort herself. Maybe she was in some kind of denial.

Brandon didn’t respond.

“What?” she said.

He looked at her. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That was sobering. “Yeah, me neither.”

“What I mean is, are you going to feel okay about yourself if you play for that draw? Even assuming you can get it.”

“How do you rate my odds?”

“Maybe not great. But probably better than your odds of unseating Fillian Dunne.”

She smiled. “You know, for a former SEAL, you say a lot of sweet things.”

“Nothing that isn’t true.”

“That’s what I mean.”

He drained the last of the wine in his cup. “We’re actually sweet people.”

She laughed. “Oh really?”

He looked at her, and there was something in his expression that was almost shy. “Yeah, we just don’t like to show it too much because it’s bad for our reputation.”

She remembered wanting to touch his face when she’d been upset after the fight with Josie and apologized for the wasted trip, and he had said I don’t know. I got to spend time with you.

Fuck it.

She slid forward on the mattress, then reached out and put her hand on his cheek. His skin was warm and she could feel a little stubble.

He smiled. “Keep doing that and I’ll keep saying sweet things.”

She leaned closer. “What if I want you to say really sweet things?”

He leaned closer, too, and she thought he was going to kiss her. But he stopped just short, so close she could smell him, a hint of hotel soap, maybe, and something beneath it, something new and a little dangerous and nothing like Preston.

“Like what?” he said, and the challenge in it, the invitation, made her breath catch.

“Like whatever I want you to,” she said, her voice suddenly husky.

He took her hand gently from his cheek and held it close to his lips. “What if I want to make you say things?”

Her heart started pounding. Preston didn’t flip the script. She was always in charge.

“It’s not up to you,” she whispered.

He kissed the knuckle of her ring finger, then the tip. Then he looked in her eyes and gently sucked her finger into his mouth. She gasped.

He eased her finger out of his mouth. “Say something sweet.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He sucked on her finger again and she heard herself moan.

“Say something sweet,” he said again.

She could feel how wet she suddenly was, and it was confusing, even a little frightening, he wasn’t responding the way she was used to, wasn’t letting her take charge.

She leaned in and kissed him, and though she hadn’t meant it to be a hard kiss, somehow it was, and their mouths were open and she felt his tongue against hers and this time he was the one who moaned, and that was good, that was more familiar. She scooted closer and kissed him harder and put her hands on his shoulders to push him onto his back. She wanted to straddle him and unbutton his shirt and kiss his chest, kiss him everywhere, until he was begging, until he would do whatever and however she wanted.

But she couldn’t budge him. She came up on her knees to get more leverage, but it was like trying to move a tree. And then he was pushing the other way, just his shoulders against her hands, and she was the one being forced back, and he came up on his knees, too, and took hold of her ass and squeezed hard, almost too hard, and it made her angry that she couldn’t get him to do what she wanted, made her want to fight him, but he was kissing her hard and his tongue was in her mouth and his hands on her ass felt so good she couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out how to turn the tables, and then his hands dropped lower, to the backs of her thighs, and he was lifting her and pulling her legs past him and easing her onto her back, and he pushed up her sweatshirt and then his hands were on her breasts and his mouth closed over a nipple, and her back arched and she moaned and she was panting even though she was trying not to.

He pulled away a little, reached back with one hand, and dragged his shirt over his head and off. His body was beautiful, muscled like a dancer or a gymnast, not slender like Preston but also not like something produced in a gym.

He kissed her again, then pulled back and looked at her. “You ready to say something sweet?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He kissed her again, and she felt a tug as he pulled free the drawstring on her sweatpants, and then he was kissing her throat, her breasts, her belly. She felt his fingers hook inside the waistband of the sweatpants, and then they were coming down, down and then off, and he was kissing her again, her legs, her belly, the creases of her thighs, closer and closer but then always moving away. She wanted him to go down on her so much she groaned, and she slipped a hand to the back of his head and tried to pull his face where she wanted him, but he wouldn’t let her.

He looked up at her, breathing hard. “Say something sweet.”

She groaned again and shook her head. She knew she was just bobbing and weaving and forgetting to counterpunch, and she tried to think of a way to turn the tables. But then he touched her, just a little but so goddamned deliberately, and she moaned.

“Say something sweet,” he said.

She pushed against his hand but he moved it away.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?”

She writhed and managed to brush against his fingers, but again he moved them away.

“Please what?” he said again.

“Please go down on me,” she whispered. “Please.”

And then his mouth was on her, his tongue, and it was so good, but then it was too good, she couldn’t stay still, she tried to squirm away but he slipped an arm under her thigh and held her and kept going, his mouth and his tongue and his fingers, and it was so delicious trying to squirm away but not being able to, and she twisted and turned and he held her tighter and she grabbed a fistful of his hair and arched her back and then all at once she was coming, not like a wave or anything gradual but like a thunderclap out of a clear sky, a detonation, and she cried out from the pleasure of it and she thought it was going to slacken but it didn’t, it kept going, getting stronger, on and on until she couldn’t stand it.

“No more,” she said, panting and twisting. “Oh my God.”

He slowed but kept going.

“No more,” she said again. “Oh my God please.”

He kept slowing, slowing, and then finally he stopped. He sat up, pushed his hair back from his forehead, and looked down at her, breathing hard and shaking his head as though in wonder.

“I’m sorry if it’s wrong,” he said. “But I’ve been imagining this since the first time I saw you at Dendrite.”

She laughed and tried to catch her breath. “Yeah, I’ve imagined a few things, too.”

He lay on his side next to her and grinned. “Like what?”

She turned to him. “No way.”

He was still grinning. “That’s not sweet at all.”

She put a hand on his chest. “Sorry, you already made me say sweet things.”

He laughed, and then groaned as though in pain.

“What is it?” she said.

“I didn’t . . . bring anything . . .”

She kissed him. “I have an IUD.”

His grin widened. “Mmm,” he said. “Now that’s what I call sweet.”

CHAPTER 46

The human race is subject to three kinds of sin, for when we sin, it is either by thought, or word, or deed.

—St. Thomas Aquinas

An hour later, Valeria climbed off Brandon and collapsed on her side next to him. He’d just come for the second time and was still catching his breath.

“I exhausted you,” she said.

He laughed. “You know SEALs can’t be exhausted.”

“Yeah?” she said. “Well, you really had me fooled.”

He laughed again. “That was . . . wow.”

It was wow. The first round there had been some tussling, during which she’d tried and failed to push him onto his back. She’d sensed that if she told him explicitly she wanted to be on top he would have acquiesced, but there was something exciting about the way it had turned into a contest with no words spoken. When he’d gone down on her, he’d been so intent on her pleasure. But once he’d gotten her on her back and was inside her . . . the way he’d slid his arms under her shoulders and was holding her face as he kissed her . . . and moaned into her mouth as he moved, carefully at first but then deeper, with more and more abandon . . . she knew he was so turned on that he’d forgotten himself, forgotten everything, and that in itself was so fucking hot that even though with Preston she could only get off when she was on top, with Brandon she was stunned to feel herself coming, and for the second time, too, a moment before he did.

They’d laughed after, and talked and held each other, and it was strange that this sudden shift in how they knew each other could feel so wondrous and potentially complicated, and yet at the same time so comfortable. And then when she’d felt him getting hard again against her leg, and he’d kissed her and tried to move on top of her the way he had before, she stopped him, and this time he’d let her win. She hadn’t come, maybe because she’d come twice already, though it was lovely when he did. She wondered what it meant that she needed to be in control with Preston but was so turned on when the tables were turned with Brandon. Or maybe the turn-on was the way she’d made Brandon lose control, that these were two sides of the same coin? Was she a control freak either way?

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“Just . . . like you said. Wow.”

“What parts?”

She laughed. “You really want to get me to say, don’t you?”

He smiled. “Just trying to live up to my reputation as a good listener.”

She realized that in all the time they’d been in bed, she hadn’t thought once about what had happened earlier.

She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “You sure he’s not going to show up again?”

“The flower guy?”

“Yeah.”

“It wouldn’t make sense. At least not tonight. I think we’ll learn more tomorr—”

The doorbell rang.

She froze, her heart pounding. Brandon sat up. He was peering toward the bedroom door and held up a hand, palm open: Stay still.

He slid noiselessly to the edge of the mattress and stood, then paused for a moment, his head cocked, his body coiled. Valeria couldn’t hear anything other than her pounding heart.

He moved toward the side of the door, something catlike in his smooth-gaited nakedness. She’d noticed when exploring the apartment that the floor squeaked between the door and the mattress, and Brandon went around the spot now. He must have picked up on it, even though they’d walked over the spot only the one time.

The doorbell rang again.

Brandon dropped lower and shot his head past the doorframe and back. Then he stood and disappeared into the living room.

Valeria sat up. For a moment she stayed like that, her heart pounding away. She couldn’t help being scared but she also felt stupid. Shouldn’t she be helping or something?

He knows what he’s doing. And he told you to keep still.

She waited, straining to hear. But there was nothing.

Brandon called out, “It’s Preston.”

Oh, shit.

She got up and walked into the living room. Brandon was standing next to the intercom. On the screen, she could see Preston looking into the camera.

Shit, shit, shit.

Brandon glanced at her. “Happy to handle it however you want.”

How she wanted was to not even answer.

She saw Preston reach toward the camera. The bell rang again.

Well, he wasn’t going to just go away. She pressed the talk button. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Why did it take you so long to answer?”

“I was in bed.”

“Why? It’s early.”

God, she didn’t want him to find out this way. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Can you let me in, Val? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Damn it, Pres, I’m trying to protect you. “If I tell you I’m okay, it means I’m okay. There’s nothing for you to make sure of.”

He turned to the front door and started stabbing a finger into the combination pad.

Valeria released the talk button and watched as Preston hit the entry buttons. “He knows the front entrance combination, but he doesn’t have a key to the apartment.”

“Even so,” Brandon said, “probably not a bad idea to put on some clothes.”

They went to the bedroom. She’d barely gotten her sweatshirt over her head when a knock came.

They walked back to the door. “Val,” she heard Preston call out. “Let me in.”

Brandon glanced through the peephole and said quietly, “It’s just him.”

She knew if she wanted to, she could have made him leave without opening the door. But she sensed this was going to come to a head one way or another. Better to get it done with.

She unlocked the door and opened it.

For a moment, Preston stood there wordlessly, looking at her, then at Brandon, then back again. Then he said, “I fucking knew it.”

She could have reminded him that he was the one who initiated the breakup. But that would have been only technically true. And cruel regardless.

He looked at Brandon. “Well, congratulations, I guess.”

Brandon shook his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Yeah?” Preston said. “What is it like?”

“Pres,” Valeria said, not wanting to risk letting Brandon answer. “It just happened.”

Preston laughed harshly. “Come on. How long has this been going on?”

Initially, Valeria had felt guilty. That was beginning to evaporate. “What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want to know how long you’ve been lying to me.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

He laughed again. “Yeah? I sure wish I could believe you. But you know what? You’re right. It doesn’t make any difference. Because I quit. Why the fuck would I want to work for someone who hasn’t even taken office yet and is already sleeping with the enemy?”

He turned and headed down the stairs.

Part of Valeria wanted to call out to him, to tell him she was sorry, it wasn’t what he thought, it wasn’t his fault or anyone else’s. But she knew he was too wounded for anything like that to make a difference.

Let him have the last word. Give him that at least.

His footsteps faded. When they were gone entirely, she closed and locked the door, then turned and leaned her back against it.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Brandon said, “I’m sorry.”

She looked at him. “For what?”

He shook his head as though confused. “For . . . I don’t know. Forcing the issue. Putting you in a bad spot.”

“But not sorry overall?”

This time his headshake was decisive. “No way.”

On one level, she felt guilty and crappy and sad. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, and the truth was, part of her was definitely relieved.

On top of which, Brandon’s No way was pretty damn nice to hear.

She stepped close and kissed him. “Then come to bed. We have a big meeting in the morning.”

CHAPTER 47

Presidents rarely, if ever, make decisions—particularly in foreign affairs . . . the basic decisions, which confine their choices, have all too often been previously made.

—Ted Sorensen

Brandon glanced through the peephole. “Good to go,” he said.

Valeria nodded, trying to ignore her nervousness. “You sure you’re going to be warm enough? You don’t want my hat?”

It was the proverbial raspberry beret—something of a trademark for her. Preston had left it in the apartment along with her favorite coat—a black cashmere double-breasted Max Mara she’d scored in a secondhand store in L.A. His thoughtfulness made her feel guilty. So did the realization that he’d left some of his own gear in the apartment, and that at some point he’d have to come by to get it.

“I love that hat on you,” Brandon said with a laugh. “Don’t think it would look as good on me. You ready?”

“I guess so. Feels weird not to have my phone.”

“Not as weird as knowing someone might be using it to track you. Anyway, it’s temporary. Right now, our job is to get Walls to understand his assessment of the order of battle was wrong.”

They’d talked about this earlier. That Walls had concluded the potential rewards and benefits of ending her were greater than the risks and costs. They needed to make him see he had that equation backward.

They went out and headed down the stairs. “I’m just going to say it again,” he said. “I don’t think we’re going to have a problem. But we’re going to be careful anyway. Careful here means less predictable. Less expected. Routes, timing, pace . . . that kind of thing.”

“Got it.”

At the landing, she started to turn left, toward the building’s back entrance. But Brandon headed the other way, toward the front.

She stopped. “Less expected, right? So I thought . . .”

“My fault, I should have taken more time to explain. Walls knows we’re on to him now, right?”

“Right. So he’s expecting us to do less expected things, like using the back entrance.”

“Exactly.”

“But then wouldn’t he think because we know what he’s thinking and we’re trying to anticipate him, we might actually use the front entrance? I mean, if he’s expecting the unexpected, then the real unexpected is expected.”

He motioned her to the side of the door, away from the glass. “I wouldn’t overthink it. At some point, you have to trust your instincts. Countersurveillance is as much an art as a science.”

He was right—she was overthinking it. But she wanted to understand. It would make her feel more in control.

“This is why we’re taking the Metro,” she said. “Instead of calling a rideshare.”

“That’s more about invisibility than unpredictability. Rideshares and other online transactions are like phones—they can be tracked. Cash for a Metro ticket is more anonymous. Of course, almost nothing is really anonymous anymore, but nobody’s bulletproof, either, and that doesn’t mean you make yourself an easy target. But again, I’m not expecting any problems. Walls wants this meeting for the same reasons we do.”

“But wouldn’t that suggest he’ll be thinking our guard is down now? And if he thinks our guard is down . . .”

Brandon laughed. “I feel like I just said something about overthinking.”

She didn’t mind the laugh. She knew he was only teasing her, and anyway a little levity was fine.

“Hey, I’m new to this, I don’t know the difference between thinking and overthinking.”

“No, you’re actually asking good questions and you’re not wrong about how important it is to think like the enemy. Sure, it’s possible that now that he’s agreed to a meeting, Walls could think our guard is down. But odds are he wants to hear us out, and the good news is, if you play the odds, you tend to win. You just want to remember they’re odds, not certainties, and that’s part of why I’m being careful. Let’s see how the meeting goes, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

She was going to ask something about what he thought the odds were—fifty-fifty? Eighty-twenty or twenty-eighty?—but he opened the door and went out. Which, she realized, was exactly the right thing to do, because if not she would have stood there talking it through for a lot longer, when what they needed was to get it done.

She followed him out and was immediately grateful for the bracing air on her cheeks. At the end of the walkway Brandon steered them left, against the one-way street traffic and west toward the Capitol. She wondered if he had chosen this direction to make it harder for a car to follow them. Or maybe it was to put the glare of the early morning sun in the eyes of someone set up ahead. Probably both. Anyone who remembered a squeaky spot on the floor would account for everything.

She noticed his head swiveling as they moved and started imitating him. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, though she was confident it would be more subtle than the hoodie-and-dark-glasses lurker her imagination was serving up. Anyway, even if she couldn’t really help, it felt good to be doing something.

They crossed 2nd Street N.E. and immediately headed left. She noticed Brandon glancing back as they turned, and realized crossing the street and then turning was deliberate, a way to create an unobtrusive opportunity to check behind them. With anyone else, it might have freaked her out, but he was so calm and confident it was reassuring.

They kept walking. “Capitol South Metro?” she said.

“That would be the obvious choice. Because it’s closest.”

“I get it. Anyone who saw us use the front door would be expecting another obvious choice.”

They made another left, onto East Capitol Street N.E. Brandon used the opportunity for another quick glance back.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” he said. “First we did the obvious thing, so now we’ll do the non-obvious. Eastern Market Metro, change at L’Enfant Plaza to the Yellow Line. Or even take the long way, the Blue Line without changing trains.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask whether having done the obvious, doing the nonobvious now would be the obvious.”

She liked this game. Maybe because it was an interesting puzzle; maybe because conceiving of it as a game obscured its true nature. Made it seem far-fetched, even ridiculous.

They kept walking. Every time they turned or crossed a street, she noticed Brandon taking a look back.

“Is the zigzagging on purpose?” she said.

“You guessed it.”

“Because it’s more natural to glance around when we cross a street or turn?”

“Exactly. It’s the same distance to the Metro as an L shape would be, but more opportunities to spot surveillance.”

“Is it a problem if someone sees you looking?”

“It depends. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if the opposition knows you’re surveillance-conscious. Sometimes you might even want them to know. But today I don’t want to scare anyone off. If they’re out there, I just want to know.”

“Are they?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. I think we’re fine.”

They cut across a small park. “How do you know the Metro so well?” she said.

“You don’t run a defense startup without spending a lot of time in Washington. Or at least you don’t run a successful one.”

She suspected it was more than that. “You use the Metro when you visit?”

His head was still swiveling, but she could see he was smiling. “Ever see the movie Ronin?” he said.

“Of course.”

“When DeNiro says to Natascha McElhone, ‘Lady, I never walk into a place I don’t know how to walk out of.’ That’s a good habit. I don’t know what that gun was going to do for him after he left it in the alley, but that’s another story.”

She wanted to ask more. But even though he didn’t seem to mind talking, and for her it was a great distraction, they were getting close to the Metro, so maybe it would be better to let him focus.

A few minutes later they were heading down the long escalators, surrounded by stoical-looking morning commuters, the station air increasingly warm and humid as the sun disappeared above them.

“Congresswoman!” someone said.

Valeria looked and saw a smiling, middle-aged black woman in surgical scrubs under a loose overcoat, heading up the escalator and about to pass them. Probably a doctor or nurse on her way to the morning shift at a nearby hospital. Valeria waved.

“Give ’em hell!” the woman said.

Valeria nodded. “I will.”

The escalator continued down, and the woman disappeared above them. Valeria noticed other people sneaking glances at her. Well, that was normal, her face had been on a lot of magazine covers lately and of course there had been the Brite Night appearance. She supposed any of these people could be surveillance, or worse than surveillance, but Brandon obviously knew what he was doing, and if he wasn’t worried, then neither was she.

Mostly.

They paid cash at the ticket machines and flowed through the faregates with hundreds of other people. On the Metro, a few other riders offered well wishes, and more eyed her surreptitiously.

Five stops later, they were heading up the escalator at Pentagon City Station. Valeria had been feeling relatively calm, but now it was showtime and her nervousness was kicking in again.

She glanced at Brandon, who was still looking around as though in appreciation of the scenery. “Still not expecting any problems?” she said.

“No. I wasn’t before, and I’m especially not now. This is too close to the Pentagon. People know not to shit where they eat.”

“Yeah, but if they know we know that, then . . .”

He gave her a tight smile. She thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

“What?” she said.

He shrugged. “You’re not that hard a target. If they really want to get to you, they can get to you. They don’t need to outthink us.”

She realized he was right. Imagining it was all a game of wits made her feel she might have an edge.

But it wasn’t like that. She was in the ring with someone way above her weight class.

That’s okay. Find a way to survive this round. And then take it outside the ring. Where you do have an edge.

Or at least where she might.

CHAPTER 48

The love of power is the demon of mankind.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

They saw Walls as soon as the escalator reached street level. He was standing on the sidewalk, looking relaxed in his blue Air Force uniform, hands clasped behind his back. The opposite of a fighting stance, and whether it was to show that he wasn’t a threat or to show that he didn’t consider Valeria one, she didn’t know.

He gave them a friendly smile. “Brandon. Congresswoman-elect. Good morning.”

It was chilling that he could be so blasé after what he’d tried to do the night before.

“Colonel,” Valeria said, hoping she sounded as nonchalant as he appeared. “Nice to see you.”

No one held out a hand. Well, a façade went only so far.

Walls looked at Brandon, then at her. “You know, Congresswoman-elect, for a rabble-rouser, you seem to have acquired some interesting allies.”

“More than you know,” Brandon said.

Walls nodded. “Carol Jenkins called last night. I thought she was going to thank me for roping in General Jorgeson for our meeting. Instead, she was concerned I might bear some ill will toward you. Where would she have gotten an idea like that?”

Calling Jenkins had been Brandon’s idea. If the woman had enough sway with the Pentagon to get a four-star in the room for their pitch, he’d said, maybe she could intercede regarding the “misunderstanding,” as well. At a minimum, letting Walls know that other people would be suspicious if something happened to Valeria might help change the man’s current cost-benefit thinking.

It was humiliating to have to ask Jenkins for another favor, but Valeria knew Brandon was right. She’d made the call.

“Carol,” she’d said. “I wanted to thank you. You must have talked to Colonel Walls. I was going to call earlier but it turned into a crazy day.”

“You’re welcome,” Jenkins had said, the brevity and the tone both notably chilly.

“I thought the meeting went well,” Valeria said. “But now it seems there was a . . . misunderstanding.”

“What do you mean?”

“Better if I don’t go into all the details. But I think Colonel Walls didn’t appreciate that the Pentagon can do business with me. Instead, he seems to think I’m a threat.”

“Valeria, no disrespect, but half your campaign involved calling the Pentagon a ‘special interest,’ along with demands for radical reductions of the defense budget. If Walls sees you as a threat, it’s because you threatened him.”

“This isn’t about the campaign. He’s worried that I know things I’m not supposed to know.”

“Like what?”

Valeria didn’t answer.

After a moment, Jenkins said, “Did something happen?”

“Again, I don’t think it’ll be helpful to get into specifics. But . . . I’m going to see him again tomorrow. Is there any way you could tell him I’m concerned about the misunderstanding, but determined to find a way to resolve it?”

There was another pause. Jenkins said, “It sounds like you’re starting to figure out you might need allies in this game.”

Valeria was humiliated at having put herself in a position to be lectured by Jenkins.

And worse, at knowing the woman was right.

“I get it,” she said.

“I hope you’re also figuring out that you should be careful about biting a hand that would otherwise be inclined to feed you.”

God, the woman was really twisting the knife. The humiliation started to swell into anger, but Valeria swallowed it back. For the moment, self-righteousness wasn’t something she could afford.

“Will you help me?” she managed to say.

“Honestly, Valeria, I already helped you. I got you a meeting with the right people. Why should I help you again?”

Valeria realized she hadn’t been prepared to argue her case. She’d approached Jenkins as a supplicant, almost the way a child would approach a parent to beg for some favor or reprieve. She wondered if there was a kind of regression in play, because, after all, her impressions of Jenkins had been formed when Jenkins was the mysterious Other Woman and Valeria had been only a teenager.

And of course, because her impressions of Jenkins were so bound up with her memories of Héctor.

So go with that.

“I can think of a lot of reasons,” she said. “The one you might care about is, you loved my father. And he would have wanted you to.”

Jenkins laughed harshly. “My God. You really are going to go far in the sewer, Congresswoman.”

Yeah, it had been painful. But at least the woman had made the call.

Valeria looked at Walls. “I’m glad Carol reached out. She’s worth listening to.”

“She can be,” Walls said. “But Carol didn’t ask for this meeting. You did.”

Now that they were sparring, Valeria felt calmer. Sparring was familiar.

“I believe in talking,” she said. “I think dialogue is a better way to work out problems than grand gestures. Even well-intentioned ones, like flowers.”

Walls gave her a tight smile. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

Valeria remembered an expression Héctor had liked: Those who talk can usually be persuaded to walk.

“Where?” she said.

Walls glanced at the marquis on the building behind them. “How about the Ritz Carlton? Assuming they’re not too capitalist for you.”

“No,” Valeria said. “Their coffee is great.”

CHAPTER 49

What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

—Charles Bukowski

Valeria and Walls sat across from each other in a corner of the elegant dining room. Brandon took a separate table. He’d claimed he had messages to respond to, but Valeria doubted that. More likely he’d decided that without a witness, there was at least a chance Walls might be somewhat candid. Valeria didn’t mind going one-on-one. Just by being there, Brandon was implicitly vouching for her, while making his point that she had allies.

That, and maybe he wanted to keep an eye on the entrance.

They ordered coffee, then sat without speaking. Valeria knew Walls was using the silence to soften her up, and cautioned herself not to let the tactic work.

Minutes passed. The waitress brought them two coffees and left. Walls sipped but still neither of them spoke.

Valeria’s confidence started to erode. Walls was part of the Pentagon, with top-secret clearances, access to the government’s surveillance apparatus, and an apparent ability to call on trained killers the way most people might order a pizza. And who was she? No one. A bartender. A little fawn in the dark, dangerous woods.

Bullshit. You’re the unknown who knocked out Fillian Dunne. Who crushed Cliff Brite on his own show. Now one good punch and you’re ready to sit down and cry?

Valeria pointed to Wall’s cup. “Good?”

He nodded. “Better than the Pentagon’s.” And then he laughed, maybe at how even though she’d gone first, she’d gotten him to say more.

“I thought yesterday was a good meeting,” Valeria said. “I thought we cleared up some misimpressions about my campaign rhetoric. I thought we arrived at a modus vivendi.”

Walls smiled. “Did we? At some point it seemed you were threatening me.”

“With what?”

To that, Walls said nothing.

Brandon had told her he knew from experience in Afghanistan that the military spooks were paranoid, and that Walls would probably be sensitive about the possibility of being recorded. That direct questions would likely make his paranoia worse. It seemed he’d been right.

“Here’s what’s strange,” Valeria said. “I felt like you were the one threatening me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“That’s exactly what I was wondering. I came to you with a package that in a stroke could save the NGAD program. Along with an implicit offering of goodwill and cooperation. And in response, you tried to cut me out of it.”

“It may have felt that way to you, Congresswoman-elect, but no one is trying to cut you out. The decision was made to move the program to Fort Worth based on operational requirements.”

“Even if that were true before, now Dendrite is involved. That means Palmdale is the better place. And Palmdale would be better even if Fort Worth weren’t going to have a Superfund problem. Which it is.”

She sipped her coffee. It was his turn to talk. She wasn’t going to let the silence work on her again.

“All right,” Walls said. “What’s to stop you from calling a press conference tomorrow?”

Okay. They were done feeling each other out. Now they were starting to mix it up.

“About what?” she said.

“About anything that might be upsetting you.”

Yeah, Brandon had definitely been right about the paranoia.

“If that’s what I wanted to do,” she said, “I’d be doing it this minute, instead of having coffee with you.”

“But you threatened to do it. Just yesterday.”

“I did not.”

“You threatened to use your bully pulpit, such as it is.”

“If you really thought my bully pulpit wasn’t all that, I don’t think you would have sent me flowers.”

“I don’t remember sending any flowers.”

“Someone did.”

“Well, you have a lot of admirers. But are you saying you’ve changed your mind about using your bully pulpit?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you made your point, Colonel.”

Walls nodded, seeming to consider that. “Fair enough. But right now, you want something from me. You want the NGAD program to stay in Palmdale.”

“And you want something from me. You want me to sign off on the next record-breaking defense supplemental.”

“Please. Every defense budget breaks the previous record.”

“That isn’t the point.”

He shrugged. “All right. I wouldn’t object to your signing it. But how do I know you will?”

“Get some of the House leadership you’re chummy with to include an earmark for a universal basic income.”

Walls laughed. “Ah, yes. Your For The People Act.”

She didn’t answer, and he went on. “You invented that on the spot, didn’t you? On Brite’s show.”

“What makes you think that?”

He smiled. “If you can’t smell political bullshit, you’ve got no business at the Pentagon.”

“Will you do it?”

“No.”

She’d expected that. But it didn’t hurt to try. As Héctor had always counseled, you never land a punch you don’t throw.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don’t need to. But I’ll tell you what I might do. I might talk to some of the leadership you say I’m chummy with about an earmark that guarantees NGAD stays in your district.”

“With funding for Dendrite?”

“Yes.”

That was what she actually had been hoping for. But especially coming from Walls, it felt too easy.

“What’s the catch?”

“How do I know you’ll vote for it?”

“You think I’d vote against a bill that guarantees employment for five thousand of my constituents? Putting them out of work is exactly what you’re threatening me with.”

“I told you—”

“Right, sorry, it wasn’t a threat, it’s just been determined in the passive voice that the Superfund site in Fort Worth is more desirable.”

Walls leaned back in his chair. “All right. Tell me this. What stops you from shouting from your bully pulpit right after you sign and the bill passes?”

“If I sign that bill, my antiwar, small-donor army will feel betrayed. They’ll go home, and I’ll need new funding. Where do you think that new funding will come from?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about congressional races.”

“I doubt that. But I’ll explain it anyway. You see, the Pentagon is funded by a trillion or so taxpayer dollars sent your way every year by Congress. We lowly congresspeople, on the other hand, have to beg and borrow the money we need to run for office. My campaign was funded by a nationwide collection of short-order cooks, sanitation workers, nurses, and other frontline workers the media calls ‘heroes’ whenever the shit hits the fan, all of whom hate that Congress keeps sending so much of their hard-earned income to be blown up by the war machine. When I turn around and do exactly the thing they elected me to not do, that funding spigot will be permanently shut off. Fortunately, new funding will be available, courtesy of people like Matt Helios and Dendrite’s other investors and their rich cronies. A development you should welcome, seeing as how savvy insiders don’t fund candidates who shout unwelcome news from bully pulpits.”

Walls said nothing.

“So that’s the box you’ve put me in,” she said. “If I stand up to you, my constituents are out of work and I’m gone in two years. Or I can make a deal with the devil and hope with a little longevity I might actually achieve something worthwhile with what I sold my soul for, maybe even the universal basic income people like you don’t give a shit about but which I think could actually make life better for tens of millions of Americans. Which I’m sure is the same kind of rationalization every threatened and suborned legislator has ever used to sweeten the kind of bitter pill I’ve agreed to swallow.”

Walls nodded, his expression imbued with a weird . . . what, understanding?

“People rationalize,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’m going to get plenty of practice.”

They were quiet. Valeria sensed he was on the verge of agreeing and didn’t want to do anything to interrupt.

“All right,” he said after a moment. “You’ve made a convincing case. I might be able to trust you to hold up your end. But why do you trust me to hold up mine?”

“Because I understand what you’re playing for. You want to make an example of me. That’s worth some degree of risk because it’s important to scare off with your example anyone who might have been inspired by mine. Well, mission accomplished. Why would you want to spend more on something you’ve already bought?”

“You sound confident of that.”

“I am. In fact, you could say I’m betting my life on it.”

Walls set down his coffee and steepled his fingers. Had she persuaded him? She thought so, but was afraid to hope.

“I believe you,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think you could vote against, or even abstain from, a bill with an earmark for the NGAD program in Palmdale. And after you sign the bill, I don’t think you could do anything publicly that might render you radioactive to the new class of donors you’ll need.”

“Good.”

He smiled. “Now I just need you to prove it.”

CHAPTER 50

When you go to other countries, the political divisions are much starker and wider. Here in America, the difference between Democrats and Republicans, we’re fighting inside the 40-yard line.

—Barack Obama

The train slowed to a stop at Pentagon Station. Walls nodded, first to Brandon, then to Valeria. “Congresswoman-elect, I’ll look forward to that proof.”

The doors opened and he stepped off. An announcement issued through the PA system: This is a Blue Line train to Largo Town Center. When boarding, move to the center of the car. The doors slid shut, there was a lurch, and they were moving again.

“Proof?” Brandon said, one hand gripping an overhead bar.

“Yeah. I think it went well.”

“You don’t look like it went well.”

She grimaced. “I feel sick. But that’s because it went well.” She briefed him on everything she and Walls had worked out.

“I get you don’t feel good about it,” he said when she was done. “But Walls knows if he moves the NGAD program from Palmdale, you’re dead. You didn’t have a choice. But you got what you needed.”

She knew it was all true. But knowing helped only so much. “You think he’ll hold up his end?”

“You’re worried about more flowers?”

“Yeah.”

“From what you told me? It wouldn’t make sense.”

“Because he succeeded in making an example of me.”

Brandon didn’t answer. The train rumbled steadily along.

“How many people in Congress?” he said.

She shrugged. “Four hundred thirty-five representatives. And a hundred senators.”

“Well, at least two thirds of them are going to vote in favor of the defense supplemental.”

“That’s the Senate. In the House it’s more like eighty-five percent.”

“My point is, when you vote yes, you’ll have a lot of company.”

“Not good company.”

“But you’ll live to fight another day.”

She supposed it was true. Though rarely had the truth hurt so much.

“You going to make your flight?” she said.

“Plenty of time. Things going to be okay at the office?”

“People will be surprised about Preston. But . . . shit happens.”

“You know who’s going to replace him?”

“Guess you’re not available?”

He laughed. “Whoever you decide on, work it out right away. You don’t want courtiers spending too much time jockeying for favor with the queen.”

“I’m hardly a queen.”

“I don’t think you understand how other people see you, Valeria.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Preston used to say that.”

“He wasn’t wrong. Obliviousness to your own magnetism is one of your charm points.”

“You think?”

He smiled. “I could name a bunch of others, but maybe I’ll wait until next time I see you.”

“Is that going to happen?”

“I want it to. Do you?”

She looked at him. It felt weak to admit it, but with all the turbulence lately—Josie and Preston and the flower guy and the awful loss to Walls—she needed something stable and hopeful and good. She reached out and touched his face.

He took her fingers in his hand and kissed her lightly on the knuckles. “You know, this is how this whole thing got started.”

“I think it got started before that.”

“Yeah, me, too. Are you going to be back in the Bay Area soon?”

“I think so. Helios was dangling a fundraiser in front of me, and now I’m going to need it.”

“I’ll try to scare up a few attendees myself. And hey, if you can’t afford a hotel on your congressperson’s salary, you can always crash at my place.”

She smiled. “Deal.”

He gave her a smile back. “Or even if you can afford one. You want me to tell Helios you’re planning a visit?”

“No, I’ll let him know myself. I doubt he’ll be surprised.”

CHAPTER 51

The CIA is not now nor has it ever been a central intelligence agency . . . Disinformation is a large part of its covert action responsibility, and the American people are the primary target audience of its lies.

—Ralph McGehee, CIA Career Intelligence Medal recipient

Walls was back at the Pentagon.

He’d briefed Franchi and Patteson about the morning meeting. They were pleased with the outcome, and while being too polite to come right out and say I told you so, both interpreted Velez’s acquiescence as confirmation that they’d correctly assessed the woman’s character. The alleged idealism was mostly talk, they all agreed, and in the end they could count on her to be a realist.

Walls made sure to give them credit for the seeming accuracy of their insights. There was no upside in explaining that what had fostered Velez’s realism was the contractor Walls had sent to her apartment. Velez had shown impressive tactical instincts in the way she’d dealt with the man, a CIA Special Activities Division veteran whose nom de guerre was Finn. And Finn had shown equally impressive instincts, though less surprising given his experience, in recognizing that the target wasn’t going to open the door for him, that accordingly he wouldn’t be able to complete the op in the low-key fashion required, and that therefore the sensible course was to smoothly abort.

But it had all ended well. Velez had been so spooked by the visit that she’d realized threatening to expose Götterdämmerung had been stupid and reckless. She’d agreed to everything Walls had demanded of her, including the humiliation of publicly proving her newfound compliance.

Walls had learned way back in the schoolyard that threats were also warnings, and that fights tended to go better if you hit first and unexpectedly. But it was also true that while carrying its own set of risks, a credible threat could avoid a fight entirely. In fact, a credible threat was the essence of deterrence itself, whether on the schoolyard or in geopolitics. The odd thing was that here, he hadn’t intended to warn Velez. He’d intended a decapitation strike. It was her quick-wittedness, not Walls’s intentions, that had turned the attempted strike into a mere warning. The odd thing was that the warning turned out to achieve the intended objective.

He realized he ought to be satisfied with the outcome, and at having achieved it at less than the expected cost. Simply by pointing the gun, so to speak, and not even having to fire it.

But Velez hadn’t been wrong in talking about the importance of examples. Would forcing her to publicly grovel, to vote for something that violated everything she claimed to stand for, be a sufficiently clear message to anyone else who might be inspired to run for office on a platform of jeopardizing national security?

Patteson might think so. He’d argue that it would be enough to show the world how quickly this wild mustang had been bridled, saddled, and trotted over to where her rider wanted her to go.

But wouldn’t it be better yet if immediately after, she were taken to the glue factory?

He thought about it a bit more and decided that yes, it would.

He smiled and picked up the phone.

CHAPTER 52

If you want power, at some point you will have to spread fictions . . . As a species, humans prefer power to truth.

—Yuval Noah Harari

Traitor!

LOL, you couldn’t even wait for your swearing in before selling out!

Congratulations you lying bitch, I told myself we won’t get fooled again but you really fucking fooled me.

Valeria stared at the screen. She was glad her back was to the wall in the corner and that the laptop was facing her. The transition office was an open floorplan, Valeria and three staffers, and even though everyone was going to see the reactions soon enough, she didn’t want them seeing at the same time she was.

Not all the comments were negative. Some were understanding—Hey, ya gotta stand up for your peeps—and there were plenty of likes, too. But mostly it was what she’d known it would be.

Montie had helped craft the message. Working on it with him had been painful. Not because he wasn’t good. In fact, she couldn’t imagine anyone better, not Preston, not even herself. But because of what Orwell had said, that “the great enemy of clear language is insincerity.”

She’d thought herself realistic in recognizing that being a congressperson would involve careful phrasing, occasional evasions, even verbal sleight of hand. But not this much. Not this soon.

And not this fucking insincere.

She looked at the message again, which she’d posted on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter or X or whatever people wanted to call it these days.

Following my election victory over corporate incumbent Fillian Dunne, the Pentagon announced it would be moving the troubled Next Generation Air Dominance program from my district in Palmdale, California, to a facility in Texas. There was never any question of ending the program or of improving it, only of taking it out of California.

A great deal of taxpayer money has already been invested in NGAD, and in my opinion a move to Fort Worth was exactly the wrong way to turn the program around. Exactly the wrong way to ensure taxpayer money Congress has already allocated doesn’t go up in smoke.

Accordingly, since the Pentagon’s announcement I’ve been working with key decisionmakers to determine what would be the best way to approach NGAD consistent with national security requirements and the prevention of further waste. The last thing anyone should want is another boondoggle—the Navy’s Littoral Combat Ship, the Army’s Future Combat System, the Zumwalt-class destroyer, the KC-46 aerial tanker, and the Marine Corps’ Expeditionary Fighting Vehicle have flushed away enough money. So I’m glad to report that we’ve agreed on a new, more focused approach to NGAD, and that the program will remain in Palmdale, home of the more than 5,000 skilled workers who despite numerous obstacles have done so much to advance the program so far.

It’s time for the government to spend smarter and waste less. Focusing NGAD’s mission and keeping the program in Palmdale are important steps in that direction, and I’m looking forward to ensuring much more is done once I’ve taken the oath of office in January.

She supposed it was as good as possible given the impossible straddle involved—the floridly antiwar candidate taking a bow for her contribution in maintaining the latest weapons fiasco. She and Montie had been careful to emphasize that the money for NGAD was already allocated and there was no question of saving it, only of putting it to better use. They made sure to contrast NGAD with two direct references to waste and to a colorful variation thereof—up in smoke. Unlike all the other programs, NGAD wasn’t stuffing the maw; it was spending smarter, a variation of Montie’s suggestion from all the way back at their first meeting, appealing in its alliteration.

Still, it seemed particularly chickenshit to call out all the past boondoggles as though they were any different. As though she was courageously speaking truth to power when in fact what she was condemning was safely dead and buried and no longer meant anything to anyone. She supposed that along with more persuasive rationalizations, this was another skill she could expect to develop—running against things that were already gone or that weren’t going to happen anyway.

“Get you anything, Valeria?”

Valeria looked up. It was a gal named Sophia, a young intern on the campaign, now graduated to office assistant.

“No, I’m good, Soph, thanks for asking.”

Another young intern-now-office-staff, Tim, looked up from his desk, maybe FOMOed at someone else getting facetime with the boss, then went back to filling out the surprisingly voluminous forms that needed to be submitted ahead of January’s swearing-in ceremony and her first day of voting as an actual congressperson.

“Hey,” Sophia said, “if you want me to handle the online, just say the word. I know Preston was doing it, and it’s got to be a lot on top of everything else you have on your plate.”

Valeria gave her a nod. “I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

The whole staff had been surprised about Preston. Everyone recognized how smart he was, and he was liked and respected. Plus everyone knew the two of them were close, and probably suspected a bit more. Maybe that’s why they were all being so solicitous.

Or maybe Brandon had been right about people sucking up.

She went back to reading comments, one site, the next, then the next, and on. The comments were coming in faster than she could keep up. Well, Preston had always been proud of their level of social media engagement. Of course, that was before her own donors were calling her bitch and sellout and creative variations of the C-word.

Her phone vibrated on the desk. She was surprised to see it was Helios.

She pressed the button on the right earbud. “Matt, hello.”

“Congresswoman Velez, hello. Am I catching you at a good moment?”

“It’s a fine moment.”

“I’m glad. I would have texted, but I wanted to tell you Bravo in real time. Brandon briefed me on the meeting yesterday and about the follow-up this morning. It sounds like you negotiated with the Pentagon brass like you’ve been doing it for years. Congratulations.”

“You’re kind to say, Matt. Brandon was probably too modest to tell you, but he had them eating out of his hand on all the technical aspects. He put a four-star general a half hour late to a meeting, the guy was so engaged.”

Helios laughed. “Jorgeson, right. No, Brandon gave all the credit to you, but I’m not surprised—he’s that good and yes, he’s that modest, too. Listen, I mentioned when you were out here, I’d like to introduce you to some of the people I think you’ll want to know in the Valley. Very smart, very influential, but down to earth and dedicated to making things work better. And they’d all like to meet you. We have the holidays coming up, but maybe after you’re sworn in, if your schedule allows?”

She almost laughed. She didn’t have to be a congresswoman yet to know that fundraising was the schedule, with minor matters like studying bills and voting done in whatever time the fundraising schedule otherwise permitted. And since Helios knew that no one on earth would turn down the kind of invitation he had just extended, his reference to her schedule was so absurdly modest it must have been a deliberate joke.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Always good to know people who are dedicated to making things work better.”

She was aware of the contrast between the modest making things work better and the grandiosity Brite had tried to pin on her about believing she could still change the world. Well, maybe Brite had been right. A solid jab was at least something, and could set up more. Go for the huge overhand right and you’ll probably miss and eat a left hook or uppercut yourself.

“Wonderful,” Helios said. “I’ll put my scheduling people in touch with Preston and we’ll go from there?”

It seemed Brandon hadn’t briefed him on anything personal. That, or Helios was politely playing dumb. But probably the former.

“Preston and I won’t be working together anymore. But someone will be in charge of my schedule. I’ll put them in touch.”

“Ah. Look, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve backed founders of companies who could scale as the company grows, and others who couldn’t. Founder of a startup and CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation are different skill sets. Each quality is rare, but the two of them together in the same person is rarer still. In you I can see both. In Preston, not so much.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, and noncommittal seemed the safest course. “Sometimes it just doesn’t work out.”

“Exactly right. Apologies for my candor, but I think this change might be one that was going to happen sooner or later. And in my experience, sooner is better.”

The sentiment might have been genuine. Regardless, genuine wasn’t the same as right.

“Thanks,” she said. “I guess personnel changes are never particularly fun.”

“No, they’re not. We don’t do them because they’re fun. We do them because they’re necessary.”

Wow, she thought. Matt Helios and I are a we. I guess I’ve really arrived.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said. “I’m already looking forward to meeting your friends.”

CHAPTER 53

After the Kennedy assassination, there has been no president; there have only been factotums of the system.

—Jeffrey D. Sachs

Valeria finished buttoning her overcoat and looked through the peephole of the apartment door. She wasn’t really worried anyone would be lurking in the corridor, but since the attempted “flower delivery” almost two months earlier, she’d gotten in the habit.

It wasn’t just the peephole before going out. Brandon had tutored her about alertness and awareness, and she was more careful in general. Mostly it was a matter of putting yourself in the opposition’s shoes, of asking If I were trying to get to me, where, when, and how would I do it? Out in the world, he’d told her, you always want to be in condition yellow, which increases to orange in places where you recognize you’re more vulnerable, and then to red if you spot something anomalous in those places. Initially it had all sounded exhausting, but Brandon had analogized to defensive driving—just low-key paying attention for the most part, increased attention when another driver did something odd, leading to emergency action if the odd thing worsened. Creating distance with each level, which gave you more options and more time to prepare for fight or flight.

It was funny, she’d always appreciated Preston’s instincts. But she realized now his was an instinct for the sidewalks. Brandon had an instinct for the streets.

And maybe for the sewers, too. Which, after all, was where she was heading now, the Capitol Building for the statutorily mandated January 3rd swearing-in of all freshman representatives, and her first day of legislative business as a newly minted U.S. congressperson.

She went out, engaging the fancy new door locks behind her. Sometimes she used the front entrance, sometimes the back, always letting a coin toss decide which. Thaddeus’s suspicion that the military had used AI to predict his movements, and that randomness was the solution, had stayed with her. The fact that he was still at large suggested he’d been right.

Dealing with his thumb drive had been tricky. She’d fought the urge to not back it up, recognizing the temptation was built on an inchoate hope that something would happen to it that would alleviate her responsibility for taking action, a kind of force majeure. Eventually, ashamed of her own cowardice, she decided she had to at least create a backup. But even that was fraught, since backups could leave digital footprints. Eventually, she followed the instructions on digital security offered on the Freedom of the Press Foundation’s website, accessed from a public library, and created an encrypted backup, accessible from her phone, based on information offered by the Electronic Frontier Foundation. She told herself she was keeping her options open. But she knew that at some point failing to decide would become a decision in itself.

More than once, she’d wondered where Thaddeus was, and what he made of her failure to call the press conference he’d pleaded for. But he’d uploaded the information to the New York Times and all the other ostensible crème de la crème . . . if even they wouldn’t touch the story, why would anyone believe her? A minute after a press conference, she’d be labeled a crackpot and conspiracy theorist. A day after, she’d be prosecuted under the Espionage Act. There might come a day where martyrdom was called for, okay . . . but shouldn’t martyrdom at least achieve something? Otherwise, what was the point?

Of course, maybe all that was a rationalization. Certainly Thaddeus, who’d risked so much to acquire the Götterdämmerung information, would think it was.

Did he hate her? Find her pathetic? She supposed she would never know. And maybe it was better not to.

Today was a front entrance day, then a right onto the sidewalk, her breath fogging in the crisp morning air. She squinted against the sun, still low in the sky. It was only about a half mile walk to the Capitol, so short the commute wouldn’t offer many opportunities to spot any lurkers the way Brandon had taught her. But she didn’t mind an oblique route, especially with this kind of weather—hard blue sky, brilliant sun, and the cold on her cheeks more bracing than the strongest cup of coffee.

It had been an exhausting time. Everything she’d been counting on Preston to do had immediately devolved to her when he’d quit, and the first thing she discovered was that she wasn’t a good delegator. In under two months, she’d scrambled to hire the necessary skeleton crew—new chief of staff, field representative caseworker, legislative director, office manager, press secretary, receptionist, scheduler, systems manager, and various other staffers—both for D.C. and California. She’d found and leased space for the California district office; attended a grueling orientation week; kissed ass to be considered for the Rules Committee; and so much more. All while trying to master Congress’s arcane rules and mores, or at least to become conversant in them.

She made a right onto 3rd Street N.E. and walked south under the skeletal branches of trees she imagined would form a green canopy in the spring. Cars passed her heading north, with a few intrepid bicyclists heading the other way.

She made another right onto East Capitol Street and entered a flow of mostly twenty-somethings—newbies and returnees; do-gooders and climbers; true believers and ticket punchers—trudging toward the Capitol, their heads down against an easterly breeze, their shadows stretching ahead of them. The Rotunda came into view and she felt a surge of adrenaline. The surge wasn’t of joy, though, or optimism. It was more of . . . dread.

And alongside the dread was sadness. She’d imagined this moment many times during the campaign, and the fantasy always involved a sunny morning just like this one. How it would feel to be elected, anointed, on the cusp of becoming a new chapter in a long and hopeful story, a living part of the history embodied by the majestic edifice ahead of her.

But now it seemed the hope had been squeezed dry. The story felt like a fairy tale; the history faded, first to legend, now to fatuous myth.

That’s how they want you to feel.

Yeah, that was true. If she couldn’t feel hope, there wouldn’t be hope.

Up ahead, she noticed a man and woman standing on the sidewalk—the only people on the street who weren’t moving toward the Capitol. Valeria slowed, feeling her heart kick harder, because anomalies were the kind of thing Brandon had told her to watch out for. But then she saw who they were: Jocelyn Slater of Gamut News and her cameraman. The reporter who’d asked how she was feeling at the Lancaster victory party. Valeria had seen her again after, during orientation week, but had avoided her then as much as possible, as she’d avoided most of the press. Probably it was stupid behavior for a politician, but the combination of triumph on Cliff Brite’s show followed by the ignominious online NGAD hostage statement had been like catnip for every microphone-wielding press person roaming the hotel. So while her new colleagues had jostled for media facetime in the hotel lobby and meeting rooms and bar, Valeria had gone back to the apartment every night to continue studying Congress’s arcane rules of procedure.

This time she remembered the reporter’s name. “Jocelyn,” she said as she got closer.

“Congresswoman Velez.”

Valeria nodded toward the Rotunda. “Isn’t Congress that way?” She noticed the cameraman was using only a phone, but he was obviously filming.

Jocelyn smiled. “But the most interesting new congressperson is here.”

“You’re kind to say. Does that mean this isn’t a coincidence?”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Cards on the table. You mentioned when I tried to interview you during orientation that you were living just east of the Capitol.”

“Ah. That wasn’t vague enough.”

“Another quarter mile and you’re going to be swarmed by a press scrum. I thought I’d take a chance on catching you alone farther out. Come on, you of all people have to respect a longshot gamble.”

It was a good line and Valeria laughed. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, is today still a good day to die?”

Valeria shook her head ruefully. “Well, when it’s our time, it’s our time. I suppose it’s how we spend it that counts.”

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

“You sound more resigned than when we first met.”

Valeria didn’t want to do an interview. She realized alone-time was going to become extremely precious, and reminded herself of something Oscar Wilde was supposed to have said, There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

“Do you mind walking?” Valeria said. “I have some people to meet.”

“Sure, but just one minute? Before you have twenty microphones in your face.”

Valeria nodded. “One minute.”

“You haven’t endorsed Ben Whetter as the new Speaker of the House. He seems to have a lot of institutional support, so why hold back?”

Valeria had met Whetter during orientation week. Unlike Fillian, under the politician’s veneer there seemed not to be anything recognizably human, only additional layers of politician. The man grinned so much that Valeria began to think of him as having Resting Grin Face, and worse, the grin struck Valeria as lecherous, as if even while shaking her hand and uttering unimpeachable platitudes about her campaign and her talent and her future, he was imagining himself doing some obscene thing to her. And worse still, she sensed he wanted her to know it.

“I’ve said many times I won’t commit to any candidate who won’t publicly promise to devolve more power to committees, restore a five-day work week, and allow for meaningful floor amendments. I don’t think any of us should support candidates who refuse to share the power other representatives need to do the job we were elected for.”

It was all true, but it also sounded so practiced, even to herself.

Polished, not practiced.

“You’ve also announced your opposition to continuing resolutions.”

“That’s right. It’s an embarrassment that Congress can’t deliver on its most basic function—setting annual appropriations for the federal government—and instead every year turns the entire country into a hostage it’ll shoot with a government shutdown if it doesn’t get its way.”

Slater chuckled. “You sound like you’ve been studying the rules.”

“It’s been a busy couple months.”

“One more question. A lot of people are calling you a sellout for saving the troubled NGAD program. Would you like to say anything in response?”

Yeah, this is what she’d wanted to avoid. “I wouldn’t say I saved the program. The Pentagon was never going to cancel it. But I hope I’ve given it a better chance of creating a positive return for the taxpayer money Congress and the Pentagon have already invested.”

She started walking, and Jocelyn and her cameraman hustled to get in front of her, one aiming the camera, the other the microphone.

“What about the supplemental defense appropriation bill?” Slater said, walking backward. “Its detractors say it’s nothing but a pork fest. Will you vote against it?”

“Your minute is up,” Valeria said. “I need to get to work.”

Slater glanced behind herself, then back at Valeria. “That vote’s going to take place in just a few hours. Not even a hint of what’s going to happen?”

“What’s that line from the movie Gladiator? ‘We shall know soon enough.’”

“Does that mean you see yourself as a Roman general fighting a horde of barbarians?”

Valeria couldn’t help but laugh. If only all her opposition could be this easy.

“Jocelyn,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a touch literal?”

“Well, how do you see yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter how I see myself. I represent the people. It’s the people who elected me, and it’s the people I serve.”

God, it sounded so hollow. Had she become just another phony? Or had she been fooling herself all along, and just no longer could?

“Come on, Congresswoman, I took a risk for this mini-exclusive—if you hadn’t come down this street, I would have missed you and wound up missing the scrum, too. Give me something interesting, like you did in that first interview we did.”

Valeria stopped.

She realized she could do it. Right here, an exclusive press conference about Götterdämmerung, with Gamut News. Put the whole Congressional Complex in the background. She could even access Thaddeus’s files from the phone as proof.

Do it. Just do it.

She imagined the Capitol Police, marching her out of the complex in handcuffs. The Espionage Act trial. The rest of her life in prison.

She looked at the Rotunda, so bright under the morning sun it practically twinkled.

She started walking again. “Sorry,” she said. “That interview was a long time ago.”

CHAPTER 54

Whoever controls the narrative controls the world.

—Caitlin Johnstone

Valeria circled south of the Capitol Complex. The value of an oblique approach was another thing she’d learned from Brandon, but she wasn’t doing it to avoid an ambush, just more unwanted interactions with the press. Though it seemed the principles involved were the same either way.

She used the South Capitol Street entrance to the Rayburn building, feeling like an imposter as she flashed her official ID at the security post and having the guard respond, “Good morning, Congresswoman.” Then up the white marble stairs, wide as a city street; another ID flash to another guard, and in through the towering doors.

She paused in the massive foyer, already bustling with interns and service people, marveling at the high marble walls, the echoes of voices and footfalls, the sheer grandeur and history of the place. She found a stairwell and climbed to the second floor. The polished marble was gone now, replaced by rubberized gray concrete.

She strode down the long corridor, her footfalls echoing. Unlike the hubbub in the foyer, the second floor was quiet. It smelled weirdly like money.

She stopped at Number 2328. There were cardboard moving boxes stacked high on either side of the door, each marked Whetter in thick black ink. The stacks felt like commuters waiting to sweep into a subway car the moment it was done disgorging its passengers. The nameplate had already been replaced, also by Ben Whetter, but inside she saw who she was looking for. Dunne.

He was standing behind his desk, placing framed photos in a box. Everything else was already gone. He looked up and saw her, his face breaking into one of his trademark smiles. “Valeria. This is a nice surprise.”

“Man of the people,” she said. “Carrying your own boxes.”

“Hah. The movers already took everything to my new digs at Daschle, Davis. But I told them I’d take care of the photos on the desk. Makes it feel . . . I don’t know. Like tossing a shovelful of dirt onto the casket instead of leaving the job entirely to strangers.”

There was an awkward beat. “I don’t mean that in a morbid way,” he said. “I just mean, this is more intimate.”

She nodded. “So . . . Whetter got your office?”

He laughed. “Moved on it about one second after they called the race for you. People said I’d be the next Speaker, but now it looks like it’s going to be him.”

“God, he’s the worst.”

“Yeah, completely in the Pentagon’s pocket. Beware of what you ask for, right?”

“I’m starting to see that.”

“I’m kidding. I actually think you might have done me a favor. But . . . he’s still vile.”

“Well, think of the names they must have called him on the playground when he was a kid.”

He laughed again. “Where’d you wind up?”

As part of orientation week, incoming freshmen chose their offices by lottery. Since serving members had first dibs on openings, the lottery was for the leftovers no one else had wanted.

“Cannon,” she said.

“Yikes. Might want to carry your own water bottle.”

The Cannon Building had been plagued by reports of lead in the water. Supposedly the problem had been addressed, but no one really believed that. It seemed the people who knew best not to trust the government were the government.

“Yeah,” she said. “I heard about that. Supposed to be a rat problem, too.”

He laughed. “Nah, the rats are nothing. Wait ’til you get to know your colleagues. What office?”

“Two-twenty-nine.”

He grimaced. “That’s a small one.”

“Yeah. Well, it was once Charlie Wilson’s, so at least it’s got some history to it.”

“You know, Cannon’s where I started, too.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Most people move out as soon as they get some seniority. Forget the water and the rodents . . . the real problem is, no underground train to the Capitol. Takes forever to get back and forth for floor votes.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“We can always count on irony, right? I’m old enough to need the exercise but too old to do it. You’re young enough not to need it, but from Cannon you won’t have a choice.”

There was another awkward beat. Dunne said, “I was, uh, going to come to your swearing in. It’s not really the done thing, but I think it should be. Show the country we’re Americans first and politicians second, like Ford and Carter. Maybe I should have asked you first.”

“You’re a good man, Fillian. I don’t think there are many like you.”

“You’re not so bad either, Congresswoman.”

“But you knew, didn’t you?”

He looked at her but said nothing.

She understood he was too much of a politician to assume, or even to ask, so she went on. “You knew if you dangled Dendrite, and helped set up the Pentagon meeting . . . you knew the price they’d make me pay. And you knew I’d pay it. A price at the end I would have refused at the beginning.”

There was another long pause. He said, “It would have happened anyway.”

“Sure. And you were gentler than most.”

“Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Are you sorry?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He nodded. “That’s a wise answer.”

“Why?”

“Because you can still do so much good.”

“I remember you telling me that. ‘You can do more than I’ve done. Maybe more than anyone’s done, at least in a long time.’ It was a nice speech.”

“It was genuine.”

“I know. I just didn’t realize then that the people here don’t tell the truth because they value the truth. They use it. Just another tool.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“For the record,” he said, “I didn’t expect Walls to try to freeze you out. I thought having you come to the Pentagon on bended knee would be enough to appease them.”

“Oh, the bended knee was the least of it.”

He shook his head as though confused, and she took it as confirmation that he didn’t know about the flower man. And why would he have?

“I read about the social media posts,” he said. “I didn’t know he’d make you grovel like that.”

“Fillian. You didn’t want to know.”

“Valeria—”

“What did Reinhold Niebuhr say? Self-deception and hypocrisy is an unvarying element in the moral life of all human beings. It is the tribute which morality pays to immorality, or rather the device by which the lesser self gains the consent of the larger self to indulge in impulses and ventures which the rational self can approve only when they are disguised.”

“You memorized that?”

She nodded. “As a reminder to myself. A warning. I didn’t realize it was more an instruction manual.”

He looked down for a moment, then back to her. “You know, you’re not the only one who’d like to cut the defense budget. But no one can resist sticking a personal earmark in spending bills. I mean, if everyone else is going to do it, you almost have to. Then if you vote against the bill, you’re also voting against your own earmark. The people in your own district.”

“I know. It’s why the Pentagon likes to distribute contracts across so many states. It makes weapons programs into jobs programs.”

He nodded. “Not an easy thing to change.”

“You know, Fillian, it’s pretty funny you called me a socialist during the campaign. I mean, all I want is a UBI.”

He sighed. “Look, this supplemental defense bill . . . on this one, they’ve got you in a box. But you’ll have other chances to say no.”

Valeria knew what he was getting at. Representatives liked to trade No votes on bills that were guaranteed to pass regardless. That way, everyone could brandish a few allegedly brave votes when they needed to bamboozle voters.

She chuckled. “You mean when the vote won’t make a difference.”

He shrugged. “There was a reason Bismarck is supposed to have said, ‘Laws are like sausages—it’s better not to see them being made.’”

“Got anything else I can use to rationalize? Maybe a reminder that sausages are tasty regardless of what goes into them?”

He gave her a smile so tight it was almost grim. “You really are going to do more than I have, Valeria. Maybe that’s not saying much, but it’s true.”

“But at what price?”

“I wish I could answer that,” he said. He picked up one of the few remaining photos and looked at it for a moment. “But I don’t think you can really know until you’re the one packing up the box.”

CHAPTER 55

The deep state system has turned the politician into something like a modern analog of the priest-king. Rather than controlling and managing institutions in the public interest, our contemporary priest-kings must scramble to appease forces that might as well be supernatural.

—Aaron Good, American Exception

Valeria walked from the Rayburn Building to the Capitol. She wasn’t going to have access to the underground train when she moved into the office in Cannon. Maybe better not to know how fast and convenient it would be.

Outside the Chamber, the mood was cocktail-party festive. Throngs of lawmakers, reporters, and hangers-on milled about, suits pressed, makeup perfect. A cacophony of conversation and guffaws, amplified by the marble floor and high ceilings. It all felt weirdly like the first day back at school after summer vacation—handshakes and hugs; bullshit and backslapping; the laughter real up to a point but also somehow forced, performative, like that Who song “Eminence Front.”

She caught a glimpse of Preston, standing by himself by one of the closed doors to the Chamber, which were scheduled to open promptly at nine. They hadn’t been in touch since he’d come by the apartment to pick up his things. But she’d read he’d taken a job as communications director with another incoming freshman—Amy Junsui, who’d be representing California’s 2nd District, a sprawl along the northwest coast encompassing the winegrowers of Sonoma and the weed growers of Humboldt. Junsui had been at least as vocal as Valeria in her opposition to massive military spending, but unlike Valeria, she had no Pentagon-funded jobs in her districts, and it was mostly farmers and inn keepers she needed to appease. Preston would have an easier time hewing to his ideals with her. Still, alone and uniquely silent among the feverish crowd, he looked neither happy nor at home. He saw Valeria and she gave him a tentative smile, to which he nodded but then quickly looked away.

She started to go over anyway but ran directly into Walls, militarily iconic with his erect bearing, Air Force uniform, and chest full of ribbons.

“Congresswoman-elect,” he said. “What a pleasure.”

She nodded. “Surprising to see you, Colonel.”

“Oh, the Pentagon likes to have a representative on the Hill for defense budget bills. Always good to wave the flag.”

“I didn’t know that. Is there some danger the bill won’t pass if a flag isn’t waving?”

He smiled. “No.”

“Huh. It’s enough to make me wonder whether you’re here just to watch me eat crow.”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to your first floor speech.”

She shook her head, not understanding. “I’m not making any speeches.”

“Not true. Immediately following your vote, I understand you’re going to publicly express your support for the bill. An honor, as I understand it. And of course a wonderful C-SPAN opportunity.”

She still didn’t get it. Was this more humiliation? “We might not even get to the vote today. Nothing can happen until the new Speaker is elected.”

“It’s going to be Whetter. First ballot.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Actually, I can.”

“How?”

He smiled. “Whetter will be nominated this morning, with plenty of time for the appropriation vote in the afternoon. After which, Whetter will give you exactly one minute to praise the bill. And he has an additional reward for you, too. Provided you vote for him, of course. And provided he likes your speech.”

“You know I’ve publicly stated I wouldn’t vote for a Speaker who didn’t promise—”

“Then don’t vote for him. It doesn’t matter to me. He’ll be Speaker either way. The only question is whether you’ll get your reward.”

“What reward?” she said, hating herself for asking.

“The Rules Committee. Right up your alley. If you can’t change the world, maybe you can at least change Congress, no? Although changing the world might be easier.”

The assignment she’d been lobbying for. Under other circumstances, she would have been overjoyed, but it was all too horrifying.

“Make a nice speech,” he said. “Full of praise for the American defense establishment, how deterrence is cheaper than war, freedom isn’t free . . . that kind of thing. Or the funding you’re expecting from Matt Helios is gone.”

She blinked, too surprised even to respond.

“Helios meant well when he offered,” Walls went on. “It’s just that he cares more about the business DARPA can direct to his portfolio of defense startups than he does about throwing you a funding lifeline. And I promise you, if I tell him no lifeline, he’ll stand on the shore and watch you drown. And so will anyone else who needs anything at all from the Pentagon. Which means everyone. Everyone who matters.”

She was suddenly short of breath and the room seemed too hot. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been depending on Helios to replace the funding she’d lost when she posted the announcement of her newfound support for NGAD.

“It wasn’t enough?” she managed to say. “That I kept quiet? That I humiliated myself on social media? That I’m going to sign your damn bill?”

He gave her a humorless laugh. “What did you think, you were fighting an opponent with a liver you could hit? A jaw you might connect with? The Pentagon is a giant amoeba. Trying to fight it just means punching yourself out. As you have.”

“If I’m beaten, why are we still fighting?”

He shrugged. “You said it yourself, when we had coffee. You’re a good example.”

“Of what happens to an elected representative of the people who challenges you?”

“I think you know, Congresswoman-elect, it could have been a lot worse. Your loose talk unnerved people.”

“During the campaign? I told you—”

“You know what I mean.”

She did. Götterdämmerung.

“I thought we had a deal,” she said, hating how feeble it sounded.

“We do. The defense bill has an earmark for NGAD in Palmdale, as promised. You’re going to vote for it, as promised. And you’ll also have the honor of offering a few short remarks praising the bill. Who could object to that?”

She tried to quell her growing desperation. “Anything else you’re planning to rub my face in?”

“Don’t think of it that way. You got in the ring with a heavyweight. You can’t really complain now about getting hit back.”

That was the second boxing reference, each vague enough to have meant anything, or nothing. But Valeria sensed he was saying there was a file on her, a file that included information about Héctor, her childhood, everything.

“On a happier note,” Walls went on, “in between the morning vote for Speaker and the afternoon vote for the appropriation bill, you’ll have a nice recess for lunch and the ceremonial swearing-in photo. You have anyone coming to hold a family bible? Your mother? Brother?”

Yeah, he was definitely letting her know there was a file. That they were watching her, should she ever think to step out of line again.

“Why?” she said. “Are you offering to do it yourself?”

He laughed. “Now that you mention, it would be a good way to show the world we’ve mended fences.”

In fact, although Josie still wouldn’t talk to her, she had invited Mateo. He’d been noncommittal, saying he was still trying to manage Josie. His ambivalence had hurt Valeria so much she’d almost told him not to bother, she’d be better off getting sworn in alone than escorting around a fucking momma’s boy. Instead, she’d just choked out a weary Whatever, Mateo, whatever.

She had friends from college she could have asked, but it felt weird to have someone other than family for the photo op. She’d actually thought about asking Brandon, but the optics would have been terrible and besides, he and his brothers were already overloaded trying to adapt Dendrite’s Nerio AI to Pentagon NGAD requirements. So it seemed that after the official en masse swearing-in in the Chamber, it would be just her and Whetter for the photo. She wondered if she should skip it entirely. It wasn’t like the ceremonial swearing-in was a constitutional requirement. It was just a custom. And at this point, knowing that Whetter had conspired with Walls to further humiliate her, imagining the man’s obscene grin as he stood alongside her made her want to vomit.

“Maybe,” she said. “But not as good as having me use my first airtime in Congress to praise the bill you made me sign, along with all things military. Sorry, all things ‘defense.’”

He shrugged. “You know what? Forget our deal. That floor time I got you is entirely extraneous. You can use it to explain why you voted against a bill that provides so many jobs in your district. I’m sure your constituents will be very understanding.”

She felt a surge of rage so intense it bordered on hatred. He’d already won. Why did he have to keep twisting the knife?

She managed to choke down the emotion. “I’ll vote for your bill, Colonel. And I’ll vote for Whetter as Speaker, too. Like you said, they’re both going to pass anyway, so what difference does it make?”

“Don’t forget, you need to make a nice speech, too. At least if you want Matt Helios to throw you that lifeline you’ve been counting on.”

“You won’t stop him?

“Haven’t I always been true to my word?”

“To your threats, Colonel. Not the same thing. But fine, you win. Again.”

CHAPTER 56

Public opinion matters hardly at all. A small number of elites get together and they make the decisions.

—John Mearsheimer

The morning session went as Walls had predicted, and along the lines Valeria had expected from her months-long study of House procedures.

She had entered the Chamber and found her seat on the left side of the cavernous space, reserved for California, which had the largest number of representatives. She chatted with her colleagues, who were friendly but seemed less awestruck than during orientation week. Maybe it was her humiliating online about-face—a kind of preemptive fall to earth that belied her winged sandals and revealed instead feet of clay. Probably they had expected her to continue to be showered with campaign cash from her small-donor army and hoped she would share the bounty—and now realized those rains had dwindled to drought.

More than once, she’d wondered what it would feel like—her first time on the floor of the Capitol Chamber as a newly elected member of the U.S. House of Representatives. Always she’d expected the experience would be joyous and triumphant. But now it all felt ominous. The raised wooden rostrum—the wall behind it clad in marble and decorated with bronze fasces, symbols of the power of the law—was like an inquisitor’s dais. The portraits, and carvings, and inscriptions . . . it all seemed to sit in judgment. She imagined humiliating herself in front of all these people with the speech Walls and Whetter had forced on her, and felt a sick roll in her stomach.

The Clerk of the House called the proceedings to order and a hush fell over the cavernous room. The Chaplain led a prayer; the Clerk had everyone recite the Pledge of Allegiance, then called a quorum; and they proceeded to vote for the new Speaker of the House, with Whetter winning easily on the first ballot. The Dean of the House, a ceremonial post occupied by Congress’s longest-serving member, a guy amusingly named Linger who’d been representing the same Kentucky district since the Carter administration, swore in Whetter as Speaker, and Whetter in turn collectively swore in all the new members.

The moment he was done administering the oath, there was an answering chorus of I do!, immediately followed by congratulations from Whetter and a jubilant round of applause. Valeria joined in the handshakes and hugs and high-fives, trying to feel excited but managing only a pretense. There were old folks and toddlers standing at the back of the room, hooting and hollering for their children and parents, and probably for siblings, too, and for a moment she felt horribly alone.

There was a bit more pomp and circumstance—adoption of the rules of the House for the new Congress; various administrative resolutions and unanimous consent agreements; and Whetter’s announcement of his priorities and expected practices, mostly a paean to American military dominance and promises that America would always have the most lethal military on earth. Valeria was aware the speech was nauseating, but she was too numb to really react.

Finally, Whetter finished bloviating and called a recess. Valeria moved with the flow toward one of the exits, blinking from the staccato flashes from reporters’ cameras and people taking selfies. She saw Preston with Amy Junsui, leaning close and whispering something. Junsui smiled and squeezed his arm. For a moment, Valeria felt a weird and ridiculous jolt of jealousy. Then it was gone, replaced by something hollow and forlorn.

And then she saw Montie, standing alone by one of the exits, looking at her, his face aglow with what she now recognized was one of his genuine smiles, the awkward one. She fought her way over.

“Montie,” she said. Without thinking, she leaned in and hugged him. She felt his back stiffen and he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

She pulled away, realizing she probably shouldn’t have hugged him. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For . . . sometimes I’m too much of a hugger. It can make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable.”

She smiled. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me right now. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you sworn in.”

She laughed. “Nothing better to do?”

“There are lots of things to do. The EPA is still working to contain the incident at Yamaloka and they need help successfully communicating why plugging a leak is taking so long. Also, some American soldiers died unexpectedly in Djibouti, and the Pentagon has to explain what they were doing there. I turned off the ringer on my phone so they would leave me alone.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t seem happy. Did something bad happen?”

Her smile faltered. “I thought your superpower was that you could see forests better than trees.”

“Some trees I can see.”

A cluster of people squeezed past them, chattering happily. She waited, then said, “That online statement you helped me craft. It wasn’t enough groveling. Now they want me to make a short speech after today’s floor vote, praising the defense bill, the Pentagon . . . God, I might as well just stand up and say, War is Peace, hallelujah! At least it would be short.”

“What will you do?”

With all the people and chatter swirling around them, she doubted anyone would be able to hear their conversation, but still she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I don’t know. But . . . the coverage is going to be savage. My very first vote on my very first day. I think the headlines will be something like Fastest Sellout in the History of Congress.”

“That’s because in media, there are only three stories. The rise from obscurity, the fall from grace, and the comeback.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “My God, is my rise from obscurity already over?”

“I don’t think so. But stories are fractals, repeating structure at every level of detail. If one day you were to become president of the United States—”

She laughed again.

“I’ve worked with many politicians,” he said, “and I know that people ambitious enough to run for Congress are ambitious enough to imagine more. Much more. Of course I’m not psychic, but I don’t believe you would be an exception to the pattern. Am I wrong?”

Of course she’d imagined it, but even with Montie it was too embarrassing to admit. “Montie, after today, I’m just hoping to finish my first term.”

“I understand. But whatever level you ultimately reach—and watching you, I expect you will reach higher—your rise from obscurity is only beginning. Maybe the whole story will be characterized by rise, fall, comeback. But this is true too for each act. You were just officially sworn in following your underdog race and victory. A natural end for scene one of act one, the rise. For drama, scene two of act one requires a reversal—the fall.”

“But this isn’t a story someone’s deciding on. We’re talking about life. Luck. Chance. Providence.”

“I like that you gave three examples of life. Lists of three have unusual power.”

“My point is, life is characterized by randomness, not principles of drama.”

“My point was different. Life doesn’t require dramatic structure, but good stories do. Media people understand this, even if unconsciously. They want to sell their stories. So if life doesn’t dramatically cooperate, media people will create the drama themselves.”

“‘When the legend becomes fact . . . print the legend.’”

“Yes. One of my favorite quotes. So don’t be distracted by how you might still factually be in act one. You can count on the media to begin trying to create a legendary scene two.”

She was already feeling so low. And it just kept getting worse. “What do I do?”

He rocked back and forth for a moment, a habit she was starting to think of as nodding, but with his whole body.

“Make the facts more compelling than the legend,” he said.

CHAPTER 57

It is not enough that I succeed. Others must fail.

—Ghengis Khan (or maybe Gore Vidal)

Walls stood in front of one of the urinals in the spotless Capitol men’s room, ruminating as he enjoyed a long, leisurely piss.

Patteson had been right, equine analogy and all. They’d saddled the wild mustang. Bridled her. Mounted her. She was practically trotting along on her own now, eager to please the rider on her back.

But was she really broken?

Patteson and Franchi thought so. And maybe they were right. But politicians were slippery creatures, and Walls knew from experience that sometimes the first lesson didn’t take—that the horse, not properly managed, might wander off the trail.

Walls prided himself on being a realist. He recognized the changed cost-benefit ratio of engaging the contractor Finn for another attempt. Riskier now, but also no longer necessary. Visiting another public humiliation on Velez in the form of a groveling floor speech would be enough to break her spirit. And a nice committee assignment would get her to understand the rewards of good behavior. Classic carrot and stick, the operant-conditioning playbook of managing obstinate politicians. Whetter had been simpatico on how to manage Velez. Not that the man ever really argued—after all, subservience was how he became Speaker of the House.

It was interesting too that the most broken-in of horses—ones like Whetter—were also the most eager to break the spirits of new additions to the herd. Walls wasn’t sure why, but suspected it had to do with envy and self-loathing. The mirror inherently represented by anyone with a modicum of moral courage, and the compulsion to destroy that mirror by those who hated what they saw reflected in it. Whatever the dynamic, it was essential to proper management. No one could wrangle too many spirited horses without the cooperation—in fact, the determination—of the herd itself.

He chuckled at the thought that he’d pushed Patteson’s equine analogies further even than he remembered Patteson ever taking them.

Of course, if Walls was wrong, he could always reconsider. He didn’t really know much about horses, but he supposed some simply couldn’t be trained or trusted, even with pressure from the rest of the herd. That was all right. For those, there was always the glue factory.

But he didn’t expect it would come to that with Velez. He’d enjoyed seeing her flinch at his boxing references. She was smart enough to wonder whether he was fucking with her, hinting at how much he knew about her and her family. Well, of course he was fucking with her, did she think she was the only one allowed to try to get in someone’s head with a deniably ambiguous reference like Götterdämmerung? She really must have thought she could throw punches and not get hit back. Or as Patteson might say, buck and not get the riding crop.

Well, she knew better now. Her bucking days were over.

He shook off and zipped up. It was almost time for the afternoon session. He was looking forward to hearing Congresswoman Velez’s maiden speech.

CHAPTER 58

It’s literally just scripted entertainment like professional wrestling. Members of Congress will shout at each other in televised hearings and then shake hands, smile at each other, and say “great job” when the cameras go off.

—Justin Amash

The lunch recess was over, and Valeria was back in the House Chamber. For almost an hour, Congressman Gable, the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, had been droning on from the floor about the supplemental defense spending bill—how it would maintain America’s edge in lethality and protect the troops and send a message to the country’s adversaries that America’s commitment to leadership and liberty would never falter, yada yada yada. Valeria wondered if it had been written by an AI with inputs politician spouting defense-spending clichés, but decided an AI-written speech would have been more interesting and original.

It had been over an hour since they’d resumed, long enough for Valeria’s extreme jitters about her impending speech to have been supplanted by a kind of out-of-body boredom. They had voted on concurrent resolutions regarding matters like daily meeting times and adjournments; announced party leaders and elected House officers; and adopted rules for the new Congress, which would be the same as for the last one, improving the rules apparently being a more arduous task than Congress could be counted on to undertake. Every single thing they decided on was then robotically intoned by the Reading Clerk, seated on the middle tier of the Rostrum, a real-life version of Sigourney Weaver’s Galaxy Quest character repeating things for the sole benefit of the ship’s computer. Even the Parliamentarian, Smithers—tall and gaunt and standing at the back of the Rostrum in a dark pinstripe suit that made him look like the long-ago love child of an accountant and an undertaker—periodically shifted his stance and flexed his shoulders as though struggling to stay awake.

Not Whetter, though. He seemed to relish his new post at the top of the Rostrum, slowly swiveling left and right in his cushioned chair, gazing out at the assembled representatives on the floor below and the visitors in the gallery above like a bloated satrap surveying his realm. More than once, his eyes alighted on Valeria, and he made sure to offer her a slow-motion version of the grin, this one with a substantial shit-eating element included.

It was the same grin he’d flashed at her during recess, while she’d waited in line in the Rayburn Reception Room for the ceremonial swearing-in. She’d decided a photo of the moment was her right, and that it would be cowardly to let Whetter and his gloating deny her. But as she got closer and closer to the front of the line, the other freshmen and their loved ones giddy and laughing around her, she felt increasingly beaten and forlorn. She’d tried to find time to prepare her speech and get her game face on, but hadn’t managed more than a stolen moment in a restroom stall. And what difference would it make anyway? She had no good options. Even if she sold her soul and got the Rules Committee assignment, and even if Walls was true to his word and allowed Helios to throw her that fundraising lifeline, as Montie had pointed out the press was going to crucify her for her stunning hypocrisy. And wouldn’t she deserve it?

She’d watched while Whetter called over one new member at a time to stand before him, the member’s right hand raised, left hand resting on a family bible held by a spouse or parent or sibling, while an official photographer snapped away and phone cameras flashed in accompaniment. Valeria had been on deck when Whetter noticed her, and his lecherous grin had been so deliberate and insufferable that Valeria had decided the hell with it, with Whetter in the frame, a photo that was supposed to be a memento would be more like an emetic. She’d mumbled an excuse to the people around her and walked out, close to tears, feeling like everyone was watching with pity the single-term congressperson, the-freak-of-luck, the one-hit wonder.

And now as Chairman Gable prattled on, she still didn’t know what to do. Vote against the bill? After all, it would pass no matter what. She could try to explain to the workers that she only voted against because she knew it would pass anyway, so she knew their jobs were secure. But she’d look like the ultimate waffler, first reversing her “stop stuffing the maw of the military machine” campaign promises and instead praising NGAD in her pathetic online hostage statement, then reversing herself again for the vote. Her constituents and everyone else would be right to demand to know what convictions she actually possessed, and how could she possibly answer? The whole episode would be correctly perceived as political posturing, performed by a spineless congressional newbie eager to please everyone, believing in nothing, desperately trying to have it both ways.

She glanced back at the gallery. Slater was up there, along with a gaggle of other reporters and camera crews. And Preston, who saw her looking and turned away. And there was Walls. He caught her eye and smiled.

Prick. She faced forward again. She hadn’t seen Fillian. She realized she’d been hoping to—she could have used a friend right then, any friend. But she’d probably pissed him off with what she’d said at his office.

She was running out of time and couldn’t get unstuck. She tried again to talk herself into voting against the bill, but couldn’t. Even if her constituents forgave her, it probably wouldn’t be enough to appease her small-donor army. They were already disgusted by her online about-face, and donations had fallen off a cliff. Beyond which, voting against would render her Plan B with Helios a nonstarter.

Then just stand up when Whetter calls you and say a few words about how it’s an honor to vote for the supplemental defense appropriation bill on your first day in Congress. It’s the least worst option. You’ll lose the army, but you’ll still have Helios. Like Brandon said, you’ll live to fight another day.

Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow, and she took a sip from the water bottle she’d brought. She’d never felt so sick at heart. Maybe in the days after the blowup, with Héctor’s things strewn across the driveway and then Héctor gone with them, Josie’s mind like a broken limb splinted by nonstop rage. The vertigo and despair of those days hadn’t really been gone, had they, they’d just been waiting for an opening, a reason to bloom again in her heart and mind, and make her feel hurt and powerless and alone.

She realized it had all started with Thaddeus. What had he been thinking, entrusting the Götterdämmerung information to her? She was a coward. And all he’d done with his trust was destroy her ability to deceive herself, destroy her delusion that she was different, that she had courage, vision, integrity. She’d danced away from it when Cliff Brite had taunted her about believing she could change the world, but the truth was? She had believed that. Or at least had wanted to. What a sad joke.

Just make the fucking speech. No one cares. Even Walls called it “extraneous.”

For some reason, the word caught in her mind. Extraneous.

Since the night of her victory party, she’d been obsessively studying the rules, looking for an advantage, something she could leverage. And there had been something, hadn’t there? Extraneous remarks or something . . .

She tapped the password into her official congressperson’s phone and opened the app House Practice: A Guide to the Rules, Precedents, and Procedures of the House. It was over a thousand pages. She searched for extraneous and got twenty-three hits.

Extraneous material in reconciliation bills . . . no. Extraneous documentary evidence in hearing transcripts . . . no.

She kept scrolling. Extraneous matter not to be invoked in the Committee of the Whole . . . no.

Matters Printed in the Congressional Record: Extraneous matter to accompany appropriations measures . . .

Holy shit.

She read the provision. Did it mean what she thought it did? She was afraid to believe it, afraid she must be missing something, some trick or exception or something.

Chairman Gable was still droning on, but it sounded like he was beginning some kind of peroration.

She kept reading, her heart pounding. She knew she was running out of time, but she had to check for cross-referenced rules, make sure there were no contradictory precedents . . .

She couldn’t find any. It seemed she had the absolute right when making a speech—

A speech.

Her heart practically stopped. Partly in excitement. Partly in terror.

How could she have not seen it sooner?

Because you didn’t want to.

Yes. That was almost certainly true. But why and when didn’t matter anymore. What mattered is that she saw it now. She had an opportunity to do something right. A monumental thing. With monumental consequences.

A line from a poem she’d studied in college flashed in her mind:

The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

Gable was clearly winding up now. Her one minute was at hand.

She desperately searched for precedents. Of course, Senator Mike Gravel in 1971 . . . but that was so long ago, and so much had changed in the culture and in everything else. The Constitution said what it said. But how the government decided to interpret was a radically different story.

“And so once again I urge my colleagues to support this critically important supplementary defense appropriation bill,” Gable intoned. “And with that, I yield one minute to the freshman congresswoman from California, Ms. Valeria Velez.”

From his throne at the top of the Rostrum, Whetter smiled at Valeria. He said, “The gentlelady from California is recognized.”

CHAPTER 59

The military-industrial complex has become a living, organic system . . . it could be said to be concerned, exclusively, with self-preservation and expansion, like a giant, malignant virus.

—Chuck Spinney and Andrew Cockburn

Valeria got unsteadily to her feet, her heart pounding. She started to shuffle down the aisle past her fellow members, then realized she’d forgotten her water. She shuffled back, grabbed it, then struggled again along the aisle, apologizing to the people she passed like a theatergoer heading to the bathroom in the middle of a movie.

There was a small podium erected on a table at the end of the aisle. She bent the microphone down toward her mouth and started to speak. But her throat was too tight. She cleared it and the microphone picked up the sound, broadcasting it through the entire chamber. Shit. She took a sip of water and saw her hand was shaking so hard it might have been palsied.

Come on, Val. Don’t think. Just do it.

“Th . . . thank you, Mr. Speaker. I, uh . . .”

She forgot what she was going to say. The rule. The procedure. It was . . .

She looked at her phone. The screen had gone dark. She touched it. The screen lock lit up but she realized she couldn’t remember the password.

God Val you are really fucking this up—

And suddenly in her mind she could hear Héctor’s voice, calm and clear and confident.

Breathe, mijita. Remember to breathe.

The password came to her. She entered it with a trembling finger. The screen lock vanished and the rules appeared.

“Mr. Speaker,” she said, her voice steadier now. “I uh, I hereby invoke my right to extend my remarks and to include extraneous material within the permitted limit in that section of the Congressional Record entitled Extensions of Remarks.”

Whetter blinked. “What?”

“Yes,” Valeria said. “That would be pursuant to the, uh”—she paged through the rules on her phone—“pursuant to the rules of the previous Congress granting members permission to extend remarks and include extraneous material in the Congressional Record.”

“The previous Congress?” Whetter said.

“Yes,” Valeria said. “Yes, Mr. Chairman, the rules of the previous Congress, which we adopted in toto and without alteration this morning by unanimous consent. They are now the rules of this Congress, and I hereby invoke them.”

Whetter’s grin was gone now. “For what purpose?”

She glanced back at the gallery. Several of the reporters, obviously sensing something interesting was happening, were leaning forward in their seats. Walls was out of his, standing with his hands on the railing, staring down at her. His smile was gone, too.

“For the purpose of including extraneous matters in the Congressional Record, specifically to accompany an appropriation measure.”

“That isn’t permitted,” Whetter said. His voice had dropped a notch.

“I’m sorry to correct you, Mr. Speaker, but it is. Any member granted time to speak has the absolute right to include extraneous matters, specifically in connection with appropriation measures.” She realized she was talking too fast, and struggled to go slower. “And the matter before the House this afternoon, Mr. Speaker, as I’m sure you know, is a bill to authorize the transfer of more taxpayer money to the military. That is, a bill for appropriation, a word that is in the title of the bill itself. Please see Section 111-1, May 14th, 2009, page 12571.”

Whetter’s expression was pure incredulity. He turned to the Parliamentarian, Smithers.

Smithers didn’t even need to consult the rules. His tone almost cheerful, he said, “That is indeed correct, Mr. Speaker.”

Valeria heard one of the chamber doors to her right open. She looked. It was Walls.

Still think I’m punching myself out, Colonel?

“You’re out of order,” Whetter said. “Permission to extend and include is not granted.”

“It isn’t up to you,” Valeria said, reading from her phone. “I quote, ‘The Speaker has no control over the Congressional Record. The House, and not the Speaker, determines the extent to which a Member may be allowed to extend remarks.’ That’s 5 Hinds Sections 6997 and 7000. And the House made exactly that determination this morning in adopting the rules of the previous Congress.”

Whetter turned again to the Parliamentarian. “Mr. Smithers. Please confirm that the gentlelady is out of order.”

Smithers shook his head. “The gentlelady is entirely correct.”

Valeria glanced back again. Slater and the other reporters were all out of their seats now, cameras extended over the balcony.

“Thank you, Parliamentarian Smithers. Mr. Speaker, per the rules, I will keep my extraneous remarks at under ten minutes.”

Whetter glanced at Walls, then back to Valeria. After a long moment, he practically growled, “Proceed.”

Valeria took a deep breath. “Pursuant to Article I, Section 6, Clause 1 of the U.S. Constitution, colloquially known as the Speech and Debate clause, I wish to introduce into the record information and documentation concerning an unauthorized Pentagon program called Götterdämmerung—”

“Absolutely not!” Walls cried out. “Without confirming or denying the existence of any such program, I—”

“Excuse me!” Valeria shouted over him. “You have no standing to speak here, sir, and you are interrupting a floor vote of the U.S. Congress in session.”

Walls’s face went dark. “You little—”

Valeria gestured to the Sergeant-at-Arms, who had come out of his seat on the left side of the Rostrum. “Mr. Sergeant-at-Arms, as per Section 622 of Jefferson’s Manual, incorporated by reference in this morning’s concurrent resolution, I believe it is your responsibility to remove from the Chamber any person who is disorderly or otherwise causing a disturbance.”

“The Sergeant-at-Arms acts at the direction of the Speaker!” Whetter shouted. “Not on the orders of some uppity freshman!”

All her jitters were gone now, the way it had been after the first exchange of blows on Brite’s show. Win or lose, it didn’t matter. She was in the fight.

“On matters of discretion,” Valeria said. “But you do not have the power to direct the Sergeant-at-Arms to not fulfill his duties. And his duties, as clearly stated in Section 622 and as a matter of stare decisis, are again to remove from the Chamber any person who is disorderly or otherwise causing a disturbance.”

The Chamber went ominously silent.

The Sergeant-at-Arms looked at Walls. “Colonel. I would appreciate it if you would return to your seat. I would appreciate your remaining silent there. Or if you prefer, you are of course welcome to leave the Chamber entirely.”

Walls stared at Valeria, his fists balled. She thought he was going to say something more. But then he glanced at the reporters, filming from the gallery. He nodded once to the Sergeant-at-Arms, then walked out through the door he’d come in from.

Valeria turned back to Whetter. “As a point of procedure, I’d like to note that my ten minutes begins now, not before the disturbance caused by the unauthorized remarks of a Pentagon representative.”

Whetter stared down at her, gripping the edges of the dais in front of him. After a long moment, he said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m doing what Senator Mike Gravel did with the Pentagon Papers. I am reading into the Congressional Record information of vital public importance that the powers-that-be would prefer to keep hidden.”

“This is an open hearing,” Whetter said. “If you reveal classified information here, if you jeopardize national security, I promise you will be censored, investigated under the Espionage Act, and otherwise prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Consider yourself warned.”

“I’m afraid you didn’t understand,” Valeria said. “My extraneous remarks are made pursuant to the Constitution’s Speech and Debate clause, which provides”—she scrolled down on her phone to the relevant provision—“that members, quote ‘will be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House, they shall not be questioned in any other Place.’ Unquote. And the House Manual itself provides”—she scrolled again—“in Chapter 42, Section 1, and again I quote, ‘This clause precludes judicial inquiry into the motivation, preparation, and content of a Member’s speech. All speech, debate, and remarks on the floor are privileged, as is material inserted in the Congressional Record by a Member with the consent of the House.’ Unquote.”

Whetter glanced at Parliamentarian Smithers again.

Smithers smiled at Valeria. “Once again,” he said, “entirely correct. A rare pleasure to work with someone who seems to know the rules of procedure as well as the House Parliamentarian does.”

Valeria dipped her head to him. “Thank you, sir. And thank you, Mr. Speaker, for respecting the rules pursuant to the oath you took this morning.”

She smiled at him, and his face contorted in rage.

“As for my remarks,” Valeria said. “As Thomas Jefferson and James Madison both repeatedly observed, government is an inherently untrustworthy institution. And despite the constraints set forth in the Bill of Rights, over time the interests of government and the people will diverge, with the government increasingly acting in its own interest and at the expense of the people’s, while abusing secrecy laws and other powers to conceal its dangerous and nefarious acts.”

She glanced back, up to the gallery, and looked at Walls. “I believe these abuses have included assassinations, both attempted and actual, carried out against American citizens on American soil.”

Walls stared back at her, stony-faced. Valeria faced the Rostrum again.

“The abuses also include a Pentagon program called Götterdämmerung, which seeks without any civilian oversight to secretly combine artificial intelligence with the command and control of America’s nuclear arsenal in a way that would remove human decision-making from the loop and turn over the decision on whether to launch a nuclear war entirely to machines. And if this sounds like Skynet in the Terminator movies, it’s because that’s exactly what it is.”

A collective mutter rippled across the Chamber. Valeria was vaguely aware of flashes going off as reporters took pictures.

“We’ve strayed so far,” she went on. “From our foundational principles of ‘of, by, and for the people.’ So after voting on the appropriation bill before us today, I plan to introduce two pieces of legislation I hope will act as a reset.”

The muttering was gone now. Whetter continued to stare at her, seething.

“The first bill will be a call for Congress to create a commission to investigate the Götterdämmerung program: who is behind it, how it was approved, how far along it is in its implementation, and to what degree its architects have accounted for the risk of turning over to a nonhuman intelligence America’s five-thousand nuclear weapons and delegating to that nonhuman intelligence the decision on whether to launch a nuclear war.”

She took a sip of water, then continued. “I will also call for the commission to investigate Pentagon assassination programs—not in warzones, but here, on American soil, against whistleblowers and other American citizens the Pentagon considers to be a threat to its prerogatives.”

She stole a glance at the representatives around her. They seemed stupefied, with more than a few mouths actually agape.

“I hope to model this commission on the Church and Pike Commissions of the 1970s, which investigated abuses, criminality, and other rogue behavior by the CIA and FBI. I expect in this effort Congress will receive some assistance from the news media, because for months all the major establishment news outlets have been in possession of documents regarding the Götterdämmerung program, and one area of Congressional inquiry will involve why they failed to publish anything about a program so monumentally dangerous to the public and indeed to the world.”

The silence in the Chamber was profound. Valeria had no idea whether she was winning people over, or whether they planned to stone her as soon as she was done talking. She realized with a joy she hadn’t felt since the election that she didn’t give a shit either way.

“The second bill will be called the For The People Act. I’ve already spoken about this legislation publicly, and its three components—a universal basic income, ranked-choice voting, and federal matching funds—have proven extremely popular with the public. Of course, what’s popular with the public is likely to receive the opposite reception in this Chamber, because anything that empowers ordinary people, weakens the death grip the Democratic and Republican duopoly exerts over party politics, and undermines the ability of moneyed interests to control the outcome of elections and the implementation of legislation, will correctly be perceived by America’s sclerotic vested interests as a mortal threat. I of course hope this assessment is wrong, and that instead we will hew to principle rather than party and put aside our privileges in favor of actually serving the people.”

Camera lights continued to flash from the gallery. The silence was so profound Valeria could hear the shutter clicks.

“And with the rest of my time, Mr. Speaker, pursuant to the Speech and Debate clause, I will now read the Götterdämmerung documents in my possession into the Congressional Record.”

She smiled again at Whetter, whose Resting Grin Face had been replaced by an expression so cold and rigid it might have been carved from ice. She didn’t need to look at the gallery to know Walls was back there, staring at her the same way.

She realized again the most glorious thing about all of it was that she didn’t even care.

CHAPTER 60

Any member of Congress who stands up and says, “Well, maybe we don’t have to spend $600 billion on the military,” they get letters from people working in the military industry in their own state . . .

—Bernie Sanders

The moment the afternoon session was adjourned, an enormous pack of reporters burst through the Chamber doors, galloping past everyone in their efforts to get to Valeria. There was a swirling sea of faces and flashes and hands gripping microphones, a cacophony of shouted questions. It was so crowded and chaotic that there were cries of Back up! and Let her breathe!

When they realized Valeria wasn’t running off, the atmosphere cooled a little. Valeria started to take questions. They were all about Götterdämmerung. None was about the defense appropriation bill, nor about the fact that after her speech she had joined almost every other representative in voting for it.

Well, that’s one way to deflect unwanted questions.

They wanted to know about Thaddeus. When did he give you the Götterdämmerung information? After the appearance on Brite Night. Where? At her hotel. Why? He liked her views on whistleblowers.

Why had she waited so long? She was truthful about that, too. It was because she was afraid. Afraid of being imprisoned. Afraid of something worse.

The questions kept coming, reporters shouting over each other, the scrum continually tightening and then, when it seemed just shy of suffocating her, easing up again.

Valeria glanced at the entrance to the right of the Rostrum. She saw Preston standing next to it. He caught her eye and nodded. She didn’t know what the nod meant, but at least he wasn’t pretending she wasn’t there anymore.

And then coming through the door on the other side of the shifting scrum she was shocked to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. She craned her head and confirmed she wasn’t seeing things, it really was Mateo. She almost didn’t recognize him. He was wearing a dark suit and tie.

“Matty!” she called out. “Matty!”

He looked left and right, then saw her, surrounded by all the reporters. He moved toward her but was blocked by the crowd.

“Excuse me,” Valeria said, trying to move forward. “That’s my brother.”

It was no good. “Excuse me!” she said, more loudly this time. “Please, can you let me through?”

There was a ripple in the tight crowd ahead of her and she struggled forward. And suddenly there he was. She threw her arms around his neck and he hugged her—awkwardly because he was holding a carryon bag in each hand.

“Is it over?” he said. “Please tell me it’s not over.”

So much had happened, she wasn’t even sure what he was talking about. “Is what over?”

“The swearing-in. The flight was six hours delayed, Val. I’m so sorry.”

The reporters were still shouting questions. She ignored them. “No, no, forget about that, I’m just glad you’re here.”

“But I wanted to see you. You know, when it became official.”

She laughed. “Well, after everything that happened today, it might not be official for that long.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She saw Smithers talking to Whetter at the top tier of the Rostrum. It looked like Whetter was giving Smithers a hard time. Smithers, to his credit, seemed to be having none of it.

She had an idea.

“Mateo,” she said. “Come with me.” She grabbed him by the hand and started pulling him through the shouting reporters.

“Wait,” Mateo said, looking around. “Where’s Mom?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Valeria was shocked. “Mom’s here?”

“Yeah, she was right behind me. Shit, come on.” He started fighting his way back the way he came, pulling Valeria along behind him like when they’d been kids.

And there was Josie, wearing a white suit, her hair in a bun, with gold earrings and makeup, no less. As with Mateo, it took Valeria a second to recognize her.

“Mom,” Valeria said.

Josie gave a curt nod, her face nearly as stony as Whetter’s had been.

Valeria turned to Mateo. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but she knew what had happened. He’d finally thrown down with Josie. Either you come to your daughter’s big day or you’re going lose me the way you discarded her.

Mateo must have read her mind, because he waved a hand and said, “Forget it. Where are we going?”

Valeria nodded toward the Rostrum. “This way.”

They walked over, the reporters moving with and around them like a school of fish. Whetter and Smithers stopped talking and watched them approach.

“Mr. Speaker,” Valeria said, stepping up onto the Rostrum. “My mother and brother’s flight was delayed, so they missed the swearing in.” She turned to Josie and Mateo and motioned for them to step up with her.

“That’s a shame,” Whetter said, offering her a disdainful version of the grin. “Family members are advised to arrive in Washington the day before the swearing-in, to avoid precisely this eventuality.”

“But they’re here now,” Valeria said.

Whetter shrugged. “The swearing-in is over.”

Mateo touched Valeria’s shoulder. “Val, it’s no big deal.”

She kept her eyes on Whetter. “No, it is a big deal. I’m not talking about the official swearing-in this morning. I’m talking about the ceremonial swearing in afterward, the one you did in the Rayburn Building.”

“Yes,” Whetter said. “That one is over, too. I’m so sorry I won’t be able to help you.”

Valeria smiled at him. “You seem to have a habit of misunderstanding me, Mr. Speaker. I’m not asking for your help.”

She turned to Smithers. “Mr. Parliamentarian, it would be an honor if you would swear me in with my mother and brother.”

“Absolutely not!” Whetter said. “It is the Speaker’s duty to swear in new members—”

“And you did a wonderful job of it this morning,” Valeria said. “But the ceremonial swearing-in is entirely a matter of custom. It has no legal force and is nowhere provided for in the rules of procedure.” She looked at Smithers. “I’m simply asking Mr. Smithers if he would do me the honor. As a favor.”

Smithers looked at Whetter, then back to Valeria. He smiled. “Congresswoman. The honor would be mine.”

Whetter’s face had turned fearsomely crimson. A vein in his forehead stood out. “You didn’t just lose out for the Rules Committee,” he said. “For as long as I’m Speaker, you will serve on no committee, ever.”

Valeria smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Speaker, but I already figured that out on my own.”

Whetter shook his head and threw up his arms in disgust. “This place is going to hell.” Then he pointed a finger at Valeria. “And you, Congresswoman, are going to prison.” He stormed down off the dais.

Mateo watched him go. “What’s all that about?”

Valeria shook her head. “They made fun of him on the playground, I guess. Whatever.” Then she turned to Smithers. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “I’m glad I could help. Some of these people need to have the stuffing knocked out of them from time to time. It’s a shame it doesn’t happen more often. That was an impressive bluff about Section 622, by the way.”

“Was it too much?”

“I’d say you had chalk dust on your cleats. The truth is, the Sergeant-at-Arms has substantial discretion in determining whether something is a disturbance, and on how to handle it. But Speaker Whetter seemed not to know that. And the Parliamentarian’s duty is to enforce the rules, not to educate members too lazy or ignorant to know them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Shall I swear you in?”

Valeria glanced around. “I’m not sure what to do. I don’t have anything, like a bible—”

“Wait,” Mateo said. “You do.” He set down the bags and opened one of them. After a moment of fishing around, he stood, holding a pair of boxing gloves.

Héctor’s gloves. The ones Mateo had rescued all those years earlier, on that awful morning.

Valeria felt her eyes instantly well up. “Mateo—”

“I read about it,” he said. “It can be anything, right?”

Smithers laughed. “Congresswoman, is your whole family obsessed with the rules of Congress?”

Valeria laughed, too. “Apparently so. Will the gloves work?”

“You can use anything you like,” Smithers said. “Remember, this is ceremonial. Entirely a matter of custom.” He smiled. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Okay,” Valeria said. “Okay.” She realized she was feeling overwhelmed and didn’t really know what to do.

“Mom,” Mateo said. “Stand here.” He pointed to Valeria’s right, and Josie, moving stiffly, complied.

“Good,” Mateo said. He moved over to Valeria’s left. The three of them were in a row now, all facing Smithers.

Valeria glanced at the reporters on the floor. “Can someone take a picture?”

Instantly dozens of photographers hustled into position.

“Wait,” Mateo said. “Here, put on the left glove. You always had a good left hook. I think the right hand you raise, so better to leave it uncovered.”

Valeria felt half in shock. At everything, including the way her passive brother was so smoothly taking charge. And at how much, right in that overwhelming moment, she needed him to.

Mateo helped her pull on the left glove. Valeria raised her right hand. Mateo held the right glove alongside the left, his hands under both. Josie maintained her stiff posture to Valeria’s right.

“Would you like me to recite you the oath?” Smithers said. “Or would you prefer just the photograph? Remember, it’s up to you.”

“The oath if you would,” Valeria said. “It really would be an honor, sir.”

Smithers reached out with his left hand and placed it on top of the glove Valeria was wearing. Flashes went off as the reporters began taking pictures.

“Do you solemnly swear or affirm—”

“Wait,” Josie said. “Wait.” She reached across and took Valeria’s gloved hand in both her own, which were trembling. Valeria looked and was stunned to see tears streaming down her mother’s face. An instant later, she was crying herself. She glanced at Mateo, and he was crying, too.

Valeria started laughing. “Mr. Parliamentarian, I think you better hurry or we’re all going to lose it here.”

Smithers nodded. “Do you solemnly swear or affirm—”

The camera shutters were practically a drumbeat now, the flashes like fireworks.

“—that you will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic, that you will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that you take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that you will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which you are about to enter, so help you God?”

Valeria nodded. “I do.”

Someone on the floor to her left started clapping, slow, loud, and deliberate. She glanced over. It was Dunne, looking up at her, nodding.

Smithers clapped as well. And then, whether by reflex or some genuine emotion, applause broke out among the reporters, too.

Valeria turned to Mateo. He smiled and pulled her in for a long, wordless hug. Valeria didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just hugged him back.

Then she turned to Josie. “Mom—”

Josie, her eyes glistening, shook her head. “I’m so sorry, mijita. You make your mother so proud.”

Valeria managed to say, “I’m proud of you, too, Mom.”

Josie stepped in and clutched her tightly. Valeria could feel her mother’s back begin shaking with sobs.

After a long time, Josie pulled back. Her face was wet and streaked with mascara. “So proud, mijita,” she said again, wiping her eyes. “And—”

She paused and squeezed the gloves with both hands. “And your father would be so proud, too.”

CHAPTER 61

The monkey laughs at the other monkey’s ass.

—Japanese proverb

The reporters were gone, appetites temporarily glutted, off to upload their photos and videos and file their stories. Here and there a few stragglers lingered, but the Chamber was mostly empty now, a cathedral in repose, the service concluded, the worshippers all departed.

After Smithers had finished the ceremonial swearing-in, Valeria’s fellow members offered scant interaction, neither condemnations nor congratulations. Instead mostly they steered clear, as though Valeria had revealed herself infected with a novel virus, the symptoms of which had yet to fully present, but whose risk of contagion required immediate quarantine.

Only after the cameras and microphones were gone did a few dare even a passing remark. Amy Junsui had been nice. “Congresswoman,” she had said. “Just three words. You. Have. Balls.” And a few other of the freshmen Valeria had met during orientation week had shaken her hand—but also their heads, as though in wonder at someone they’d just seen do something undeniably impressive, but who would soon be remembered more as an object lesson than as anything else.

Or maybe it was just that they were waiting to see which way things would go. If she was politically toxic, they wanted to be far enough to flee. If for some unforeseen reason her performance turned out to be a hit, they wanted to be close enough to try to cash in on the windfall.

It made her a little sad to have become so cynical so fast. Though she remembered reading a saying somewhere, something like, “The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.”

But whatever. Josie and Mateo were waiting for her, right outside the Chamber doors. They were all going out for a celebratory dinner tonight. Valeria would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

Nancy Byer from Texas’s 12th District had talked to her the most. She’d said, “Well, that was something.”

The comment was so insipid, and so obviously an attempt to fish for something more, that Valeria hadn’t answered.

After a moment, Byer added, “Well, you kept NGAD. I thought it was mine, honey, but hey, you win some, you lose some.”

“I guess so,” Valeria said.

They were both quiet for a moment. Byer said, “So what did they offer you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Or was it something they had on you?”

Valeria smiled. “Really, Nancy, it sounds like maybe you’re confusing me with someone else you know.”

Byers grunted a short, humorless sound, more a bark than a laugh. “Word to the wise? Whatever it was, you better watch out. You take on these people, they’ve got six ways from Sunday of getting back at you.”

Valeria was already quite familiar what “these people” could do. But that was another matter for tomorrow.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

Byers nodded. “Oh, and for the record? I don’t really buy this Götterdämmerung thing. Who would name it something like that?”

Valeria watched her walk away. She’d known she was going to face ferocious opposition. But she’d expected it would be deliberate, not denial. What had Brandon said? People don’t like ignorance only because it’s bliss. Sometimes they like it because it’s useful.

There was a text from Jenkins, too. We might not be each other’s favorite people right now. Still, I wanted you to know I would have been there today out of respect for Héctor. But that would have been disrespectful to your family, so I watched on C-SPAN, instead. I saw what you did. I said it before and I think you must know anyway, but Valeria—your father would be so, so proud of his daughter, Congresswoman Velez.

Valeria had to admit, the woman had class. Maybe it was part of why Héctor had loved her. And maybe things could be different now. Maybe they could even be friends.

Or at least . . . friendlier.

There was one other text, from a blocked number. I owe you breakfast, it said. And then some.

She smiled. Thaddeus.

She was about to go out to join Josie and Mateo when she saw Preston walking over.

He stopped and looked at her for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell me about Götterdämmerung?”

There were a lot of things she might have said. What came out was, “I was afraid, Pres.”

“Afraid of what?”

This time she didn’t answer at all.

Preston said, “All right. I’ll tell you. You weren’t sure what you were going to do. You might have decided to keep Götterdämmerung hidden. And you were afraid that if you told me, I’d look down on you for making the wrong decision. You wanted your shame to be as secret as the program.”

She looked at him. “Maybe I was afraid you’d take it upon yourself to decide for me.”

“You were wrong about that. But it’s good of you to confirm you think so little of me.”

They were both quiet for a moment. He said, “I could have helped you, Val.”

She almost said, It turns out I didn’t need your help. But she’d hurt him enough already.

“You want to know the sad part?” he said. “Everything you were afraid of, you just obviated with that speech. Your donors will stay onside. The ass-kicking you’ve been getting on social media for breaking all your campaign promises is going to turn into adulation, instead. You didn’t need to vote for that military pork-fest.”

“Tell that to my constituents.”

“You could have told them yourself.”

“This is why it’s me in here, Pres, and not you. Your principles are too inflexible. They’re incompatible with actual power.”

“What’s the point of power if you don’t have principles?”

“What’s the point of principles if you don’t have power?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Well for one thing, you get to sleep at night.”

“Good to know what matters to you most,” she said, and immediately regretted it.

He gave a short, disgusted laugh. “See you around, Val.”

She watched him walk off, feeling crappy, figuring she’d wait a minute before leaving herself so she wouldn’t have to run into him again. But immediately she realized waiting was a mistake, because there was Walls, heading directly toward her.

“I want you to know,” he said, “I’m not angry.”

“Really?” Valeria said, watching Preston head through the doors. “That was a good imitation, when you tried to interrupt my speech and the Sergeant-at-Arms had to chastise you.”

He chuckled. “I might have been upset for a moment. But it passed.”

“What makes you think I care either way, Colonel?”

“Oh, I don’t think you care much about anything other than your own advancement. Still, I thought you might want to know that upon reflection, I realize you might have done national security a service today, however bumbling your behavior or malign your intentions.”

She had no idea what he was talking about and assumed it was just about saving face. Well, he’d have to look for that elsewhere.

“It’s heartwarming,” she said. “Finding common ground with you.”

“You see, Congresswoman, if you understood anything at all, you’d know that deterrence only works if our adversaries have some understanding of our capabilities. But how do we effectively create that understanding? The Chinese are well versed in Sun Tzu. He was one of them, after all. When strong feign weakness; when weak, feign strength.”

He paused. She had a disturbing sense of what he might be getting at, but no way was she going to start guessing.

“So,” he said. “The Pentagon can’t tell the Chinese about Götterdämmerung directly. That would be perceived as weakness pretending to be strength. Likewise, the New York Times couldn’t have done it. That sort of story would be perceived as a deliberate leak, the Pentagon laundering its preferred talking points through a friendly newspaper. But a dramatic revelation in the halls of Congress by a dyed-in-the-wool enemy of all things military like you? That’s going to get received by the Chinese like Catholics hearing a papal bull straight from the Pope.”

She reminded herself that he was just trying to get some of his mojo back. Still . . .

“Think of our adversaries as dogs,” he went on. “With a gun pointed at them. If the dog doesn’t understand what a gun is, the only thing we can do is shoot the animal. Which in fairness does get the job done, but is also infinitely more costly. Si vis pacem, para bellum.”

“If you desire peace, prepare for war.”

He smiled. “You know, you’re not as dumb as you act.”

“I wish I could say the same for you, Colonel. I guess you’ve never heard of the Security Dilemma. Your adversaries see all your war preparations as—wait for it—war preparations. The same way you see theirs. What Eisenhower called ‘humanity hanging from a cross of iron.’”

He laughed. “You know, it can be strangely heartening, encountering a feeble mind as it attempts to grapple with complex topics. Though awkward, too. Like seeing the proverbial tribesman trying to use a hubcap as a hat.”

“That’s funny, Colonel. You know what I see when I look at you?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“I see a toddler who pooped his pants and thinks he made art.”

He reddened. “You really are a little bitch, aren’t you?”

“All your secret programs, all you’re conniving, all your realpolitik bullshit . . . where has it gotten us? We’re in an arms race again, this time with two adversaries rather than just one. Sure, the world is at the precipice, but congratulations, you Pentagon guys are important and a lot of money is being made, too.”

“My God. Has it ever penetrated your thick skull that arms control just doesn’t work? We had treaties. Lots of them. Testing. Numbers. Defense. Throw weight. Placement. Everything. Everybody cheated. It created more distrust, not less. And so yes, now here we are.”

“That’s because—”

“No. I’ve wasted enough time trying to educate the ineducable. You probably have a fundraiser to get to and I have actual work to do. And that’s the difference between us, Congresswoman. You have the luxury of soaring speeches about how you wish the world could be. I don’t. I have to accept the world for what it is.”

“And what’s that?”

“A zero-sum game. It always has been, and it always will be. The only question is who’s going to win. It can be us, or it can be someone else. That’s the choice. So you’ll have to forgive me for having little patience with people whose policy preferences are based on an onanistic fantasy. Oh, I get the fantasy might feel good to you. It might even help you raise a few more dollars or garner a few more votes. But when I look at you, all I see is a preening frivolity. My God, and you call me the toddler.”

This time, she had no answer.

He blew out a breath. “But again, you did well today, even if, as I said, it was a dumb accident. Maybe we’ll get luckier with you than we deserve. Though I doubt it.”

She watched him walk away. She knew she must have won this round. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with all the insults.

But if it was a win, it didn’t feel like one.

CHAPTER 62

There is only one party in the United States, the Property Party, and it has two right wings: Republican and Democrat.

—Gore Vidal

Outside the Chamber, Valeria was surprised to see Mateo and Josie chatting with Fillian, who was wearing an overcoat and holding his box of photos. She walked over.

“I saw the family resemblance,” Fillian said. “So I introduced myself.” He looked at Josie. “Anyway, Mrs. Velez, you must be very proud of your daughter.”

Josie beamed at Valeria. “Very proud.”

“Fillian,” Valeria said. “I could spend the rest of my life here, and I still wouldn’t have half the class you do.”

He laughed. “It doesn’t work that way. The longer you stay, the less class you have. I’m lucky to be leaving with any at all.”

They all laughed with him. Fillian said, “I need to go. Valeria, have you got just a minute?”

Mateo put his hand on Josie’s shoulder. “Take your time. We’re just going to walk around. Never been to Congress before.”

Josie and Mateo walked off. Fillian said, “I’ll tell you what doesn’t happen no matter how long people serve here—”

He frowned. “It’s funny, twenty years in this place and I only just realized it’s the same word. Politicians serving in Congress and prisoners serving time. Coincidence? You be the judge.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, what doesn’t happen no matter how long people serve here is, they don’t grow more courage. The most you have is whatever you came in with. And Valeria, in twenty years I’ve never seen more courage than you showed this afternoon.”

Valeria looked away for a second, buying a little time to make sure she trusted herself to speak. There weren’t many people around. After the excitement of the afternoon session, the area outside the Chamber felt sleepy, like one of the buildings at San Jose State when classes were done for the weekend.

“It was a hard day,” she said. “But . . . thanks, Fillian. You made it easier.”

“Nah, you did. Now my last memory of this place will be you wiping the floor with Whetter. I couldn’t ask for better.”

They laughed.

“Listen,” he said. “It’s hard to know which way this is going to go. With luck, you’re going to come out of it with a lot of wind at your back. But the people who feel threatened by you are going to try to stop that. And if they try and fail, they’ll try harder. Because they’ll rightly understand that their inability to stop your rise is making them look weak. And in this town, the perception of weakness is weakness.”

“I heard something similar from Montie.”

He chuckled. “Who do you think I heard it from? Not that I needed the additional lesson, after serving time here. But the point is, they’re going to come at you. They’re going to try to destroy you, whatever it takes. You need to be ready for that battle.” He paused. “And you need to know that anything I can help with, you better ask me.”

Maybe he felt guilty because of the truth of what she’d said to him as he was packing up his office. Maybe it was his way to say things, and do things, out of a need to maintain his own self-image as decent and generous, one of the good guys.

But for just that moment, all her newfound cynicism seemed to elude her. She stepped in and kissed him on the cheek. “Fillian. I was luckier to have had you as an opponent than anyone could deserve. And I’m that lucky now to have you as a friend.”

He smiled. “Enjoy your family, Congresswoman. We’ll be in touch.”

He dipped his head and walked off. He passed a few people on his way, but no one seemed to take any notice of the middle-aged man in an overcoat carrying a cardboard box.

She turned and saw Brandon, walking toward her, a backpack thrown over a shoulder.

She watched him approach, shaking her head. “What are you doing here?”

He stopped in front of her and smiled. “I don’t know how to greet you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re a real congressperson now. If I were to engage in a public display of affection, would it be some kind of breach of protocol?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? We could probably go do it on the Chamber Rostrum and it would cause less of a shitstorm than what I pulled today.”

His smile widened. “Well, I’m game if you are.”

She laughed. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

“I wasn’t sure I could make it, so I didn’t want to say anything. But Nick and Ryan have it under control, so I got a redeye last night. But there’s crazy weather in the Midwest and flights are delayed all over the country. I saw you on C-SPAN, though. Val, you are . . . a force.”

“You’re not pissed?”

He frowned. “Why would I be pissed?”

“You know. You called Thaddeus a ‘bottom-feeding vandalizing scumbag.’ I think that’s the exact quote.”

He shrugged. “He is. But the way I see it, what you did was your right under the Constitution. Maybe even your duty. Something called the Speech and Debate clause, I heard.”

He paused, then added, “Besides, that Götterdämmerung thing sounds nuts to me anyway.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Careful. This is how it starts. Pretty soon you’ll be demanding we stop stuffing the maw of the military machine and give everyone a UBI.”

He laughed. For a moment they just stood there, looking at each other.

“Hey,” he said. “Remember when you said, ‘A former Navy SEAL and a longtime peacenik . . . It’s enough to make you believe anything is possible’?”

“I remember.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, you want to go see what’s possible?”

She smiled. “Are you in town for the night?”

“Barely. I really need to get back to Palmdale. But if you know a good place I could crash . . .”

She looked him up and down. And liked what she saw. “I do. Can’t promise you’ll get any sleep, though.”

“Oh, we Navy SEALs don’t need much sleep.”

“My mother and brother are here, though. We were going to have dinner.”

“Ah, I’m glad. You . . . patched it up?”

She nodded. “I think we really did. So . . . you want to join us? Is that too fast?”

“Not too fast for me.”

“All right,” she said, and threw up her hands at how strange it all was. “Come on. Come meet my crazy nerve endings.”

CHAPTER 63

Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.

—Immanuel Kant

Cranston was back in his apartment. He’d made pasta Bolognese for dinner. When it was done, he sat at the table with his laptop to watch the C-SPAN recording of the afternoon session. If Valeria had been anyone else, he would have been worried about how she might have handled the speech they forced on her. But she had an exceptional knack. Whatever she had decided to say, he was confident it must have been fine.

But when he saw the performance, he was stunned. Fine didn’t begin to capture it. He watched three times, and then realized he’d forgotten to eat. He heated the pasta in the microwave and then watched again, barely tasting the food.

She’d done everything brilliantly, and under tremendous pressure. Citing all the applicable laws. Or what sounded like the applicable laws—her delivery had been so confident that anyone not a certified expert would have been intimidated into acquiescence. As Whetter had been. Cranston had never been comfortable with Whetter. So it was extra satisfying to see Valeria best him.

And she’d invoked Jefferson and Madison, thereby fostering the sense that arguing with her would be tantamount to arguing with two of America’s secular deities. She’d compared Götterdämmerung to a well-known movie, framing the Pentagon program in simple yet ominous terms. She’d mentioned how the news media already knew about the program, thereby diluting her own culpability in exposing it. She’d even persuasively alliterated—principle; not party, people, not privilege.

He put the pasta dishes in the sink, took a container of Baskin Robbins Cherries Jubilee ice cream from the freezer, and scooped two big portions into a bowl. He sat again, eating small spoonfuls, thinking.

He knew how mean the humans could be, and for whatever reason, it seemed the meanest of them wanted power the most. Maybe they were mean to begin with. Maybe power made them mean. Maybe it was both. It was why even though he worked with politicians, they almost all made him uncomfortable.

Valeria was different. She made him comfortable even the first time he met her, and of course that made him want her to succeed. She would climb higher, maybe to the greatest heights. And the higher she climbed, the more decisions she would face, the more dilemmas, the more crises, and therefore the more she would need him. She and her team would even be able to pay his fees. But if she couldn’t, he wouldn’t charge her.

Yes, her speech had been magnificent. They would come at her now, but overall, he thought she would keep winning. It was all good news.

But as in the car on the way from the airport, he felt sad again. He wished he could understand why.

o

THANKS TO

Sonia Gomez, for sharing her recollections about growing up in Antelope Valley.

Tely Morrison, for inspiring this story with a suggestion that I write something about the arms industry.

Hector Valencia, for help with Spanish dialogue and an epigraph suggestion, too.

Dave Beckley, for helping Brandon choose the right motorcycle, and for advising on motorcycle matters generally.

Dan Levin, for expert aviation advice.

Ted Schlein, for excellent wine recommendations.

Lori Kupfer, for fashion advice.

Jon Schwarz, for ideas about congressional committees.

Danny Velez, for advising on prosecution protocol.

Danny and Tanya Velez, for feedback on Spanish dialogue. Tanya is of course blameless for any shortcomings in my efforts, but Danny is fully responsible.

Frank “Pancho” Garza, for help with Spanish dialogue and for sharing his recollections about Mexican-American culture.

Russ Grandinetti, for sharing the notion of “The rise to prominence, the fall from grace, and the comeback” rubric. I don’t remember where Russ learned it, but I learned it from him.

To the extent I get violence right in my fiction, I have many great instructors to thank, including Massad Ayoob, Tony Blauer, Alain Burrese, Loren Christensen, Wim Demeere, Dave Grossman, Mark Hatmaker, Tim Larkin, Marc MacYoung, Rory Miller, Clint Overland, Peyton Quinn, and Terry Trahan. I highly recommend their books and courses for anyone who wants to be safer in the world, or just to create more realistic violence on the page.

Thanks as always to the extraordinarily eclectic group of “foodies with a violence problem” who hang out at Marc “Animal” MacYoung and Dianna Gordon MacYoung’s No Nonsense Self-Defense, for good humor, good fellowship, and a ton of insights, particularly regarding the real costs of violence.

Thanks to Naomi Andrews, Arnaud Bertrand, Wim Demeere, Alan Eisler, Emma Eisler, Judith Eisler, Mike Killman, Lori Kupfer, Sherie ONeil, Laura Rennert, Evan Rosen, Ken Rosenberg, Lloyd Russell, Ted Schlein, Jon Schwarz, Hannah Streetman, Stephen Walt, John Weeks, Caryn Wiseman, and Peter Zimetbaum for terrific feedback on the manuscript. And to Laura, for also doing so much to help me write it. I love you, babe.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

CHAPTER 1

Andrew Yang ran on a UBI platform in his 2020 presidential campaign. He called his policy the Freedom Dividend. The advent of AI was one of his stated reasons

https://2020.yang2020.com/policies/the-freedom-dividend/

There are 3.5 million truck drivers in the U.S., about two million of whom operate heavy and tractor-trailer vehicles—a figure that doesn’t include self-employed drivers

https://www.truckinfo.net/research/trucking-statistics#driver-stats

The real Protégé is in Palo Alto, not Lancaster. Dennis Kelly is Master Sommelier and owner; the food is insanely good; and the drinks, though not courtesy of Preston and Valeria, are made by magicians

https://www.protegepaloalto.com

A society running on hope rather than fear

https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/politics-features/free-lunch-for-everyone-127521/

If you doubt the depth and breadth of Congress’s addiction to military projects, read how Bernie Sanders wanted to “take on the military-industrial complex”—except for programs in his state

https://vtdigger.org/2019/09/11/on-military-industrial-complex-sanders-actions-diverge-from-his-rhetoric/

Even when weapons systems are demonstrable military failures, they get zombified as jobs programs

https://responsiblestatecraft.org/f-35/

CHAPTER 3

You come at the king, you best not miss

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6l_9reaLz0

CHAPTER 4

Offshore Oil Drilling Has Dug A Deeper Hole Since Deepwater Horizon

https://www.theverge.com/2020/4/20/21228577/offshore-drilling-deepwater-horizon-10-year-anniversary

The appearance of professionalism

https://www.tsa.gov/about/employee-stories/911-marks-15th-anniversary-tsas-iconic-blue-uniforms

If I were in charge of high school curricula across the land, it would be Orwell’s Politics and the English Language all the way

https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/essays-and-other-works/politics-and-the-english-language/

What the “Rules-Based International Order” (as a lover of acronyms, I like to think of it as the RuBIO) really means

https://news.cgtn.com/news/2025-01-20/How-US-replaced-international-law-with-its-own-twisted-creation-1AjU9GjD8g8/p.html

If you doubt that to conceal reality the government deliberately and deceitfully tortures diction (Montie Cranston advised me on the alliteration there): the Pentagon decided to call Russian military forces US intelligence was targeting for Ukraine “points of interest,” instead. “If you ever get asked the question, ‘Did you pass a target to the Ukrainians?’ you can legitimately not be lying when you say, ‘No, I did not’”

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2025/03/29/world/europe/us-ukraine-military-war-wiesbaden.html

CHAPTER 6

Not easy to get a fix on how much the Chinese and American governments spend on their militaries

https://home.watson.brown.edu/research/research-briefs/chinese-military-spending-context

Chinese military AI efforts

https://www.scmp.com/news/china/science/article/3266444/chinese-scientists-create-and-cage-worlds-first-ai-commander-pla-laboratory

An AI arms race seems a touch worrisome—but only when you consider how many experts consider AI to involve a significant risk of the end of humanity. On the plus side, there are claims that “If it’s dangerous, we won’t build it,” which feels reassuring until you consider nuclear weapons and gain-of-function research

https://jacobin.com/2024/01/can-humanity-survive-ai

About a year after I wrote this scene, where Walls muses about the possibility of a Chinese Sputnik breakthrough, Marc Andreessen wrote this

https://x.com/pmarca/status/1883640142591853011

China is aggressively expanding its nuclear arsenal (America still has over ten times the number of nukes)

https://thebulletin.org/premium/2025-03/chinese-nuclear-weapons-2025/

China as a “pacing threat” justifying ever-ballooning military spending

https://jacobin.com/2023/05/military-industrial-complex-pentagon-budget-weapons-manufacturing-influence-revolving-door/

CHAPTER 7

If he understands the language of men’s business attire, Montie Cranston probably follows Derek Guy

https://x.com/dieworkwear

If you think about it, “dominance” is never a socially acceptable objective. And yet it creeps into U.S. discourse all the time. Interesting to consider how America’s government would react if China, Russia, or whatever enemy du jour announced its pursuit of dominance

https://daniellarison.substack.com/p/the-pursuit-of-dominance-is-a-disaster

From the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology, January 23, 2025: “[I]t is a national security imperative for the United States to achieve and maintain unquestioned and unchallenged global technological dominance”

https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/01/presidents-council-of-advisors-on-science-and-technology/

President Trump in his March 4, 2025 address to Congress: “We are going to forge the freest, most advanced, most dynamic and most dominant civilization ever to exist on the face of this Earth”

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/03/04/us/politics/transcript-trump-speech-congress.html

As one of countless other examples, here’s octogenarian senator Mitch McConnell arguing that America must maintain its “primacy,” particularly military primacy. Is there any other country so obsessed with greatness, dominion, leadership, and primacy? How would America react if there were?

https://www.foreignaffairs.com/united-states/price-american-retreat-trump-mitch-mcconnell

Every branch of the American military wants information dominance

https://www.afcea.org/signal-media/defense-operations/us-air-force-advances-its-information-dominance

https://www.army.mil/article/275118/information_dominance_critical_to_us_military_success_in_multidomain_operations

https://www.mca-marines.org/wp-content/uploads/Making-the-MIG-the-Main-Effort-for-Information-Dominance.pdf

https://www.usna.edu/CyberCenter/_files/documents/idc/IDC_Overview.pdf

See also GIDE—the military’s Global Information Dominance Experiments

https://defensescoop.com/2024/03/26/global-information-dominance-experiments-whats-next/

And here’s Lockheed, “ready to dominate the skies”

https://x.com/LockheedMartin/status/1873006080160158071

Space Force: Detect, Deter, Defeat (and/or Defend)

https://www.economist.com/international/2024/01/31/america-china-and-russia-are-locked-in-a-new-struggle-over-space

Carnivore is now the impossibly bland DSC1000

https://www.aclu.org/press-releases/fbi-renames-carnivore-internet-wiretap

Total Information Awareness

https://www.cato.org/commentary/beware-total-information-awareness

It’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure Cranston learned the power of Fair enough? from Roger Dawson

https://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Power-Negotiating-25th-Anniversary-dp-1632651963/dp/1632651963/ref=dp_ob_title_bk

Marc Andreessen advocates for AI-piloted fighter jets

https://x.com/elonmusk/status/1861525935692063179

Congressman to lobbyist isn’t just a not-bad consolation prize. It’s extremely common, too

https://www.leefang.com/p/members-of-congress-take-lobbyist

https://responsiblestatecraft.org/palantir-gallagher/

CHAPTER 8

A primer on Pentagon and venture-capital funding of Silicon Valley military AI startups

https://watson.brown.edu/costsofwar/files/cow/imce/papers/2023/2024/Silicon%20Valley%20MIC.pdf

Some interesting thoughts on how humans get spoken of as essentially inferior versions of computers, and therefore the weak link in a given system—here, cars

https://www.racket.news/p/americas-next-motorcycle-philosopher

The Chinese Are Already Doing It

https://www.newsweek.com/cold-china-over-ai-dominance-already-here-opinion-1868625

More on how The Chinese Are Already Doing It = We have no choice, specifically with regard to the integration of AI and war

https://nonzero.substack.com/p/ai-surrenders-to-the-military-industrial

“One of the most common responses to any effort to regulate AI is the ‘but China!’ objection”

https://jacobin.com/2024/01/can-humanity-survive-ai

“The Pentagon is intent on fielding multiple thousands of relatively inexpensive, expendable AI-enabled autonomous vehicles by 2026 to keep pace with China”

https://apnews.com/article/us-military-ai-projects-0773b4937801e7a0573f44b57a9a5942

The “Bomber Gap” that wasn’t

https://issuu.com/theaviationmagazine/docs/075_-_2021-10to12/s/13566809

The “Missile Gap” that wasn’t

https://weaponsandwarfare.com/2020/01/17/the-bomber-gap-and-the-missile-gap/

The “Window of Vulnerability” that wasn’t

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1981/12/washington-reagans-mx-surprise/665741/

Sometimes the president just has to “scare the hell out of the American people”

https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/opinions/2003/05/25/inevitably-the-politics-of-terror/c4fdf19a-8d88-4109-9c2f-06602221928f/

“It has been said that social occasions are only warfare concealed”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q74HdWNNT0w

Mr. President, I’m not saying we wouldn’t get our hair mussed!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNC0YwuGLqg

Offshore accounts . . . status symbol of the in-the-know?

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_people_and_organisations_named_in_the_Paradise_Papers

Joe Biden called Julian Assange a “high-tech terrorist”

https://www.thehindu.com/news/international/Julian-Assange-akin-to-a-high-tech-terrorist-Biden/article15600639.ece

There are ways to make AI targeting look more accurate than it is, but either Dendrite wasn’t juking the stats this way, or they were and the numbers were bad anyway

https://spoilsofwar.substack.com/p/drone-test-read-the-fine-print-if

Juking the stats . . . Wherever you go, there you are

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ogxZxu6cjM

CHAPTER 9

Valeria’s old fashioneds are better than Bill Preston’s. Her recipe:

3 ounces bourbon or rye (try Hillrock Sauternes Finish bourbon or High West A Midwinter Night’s Dram rye)

1 ounce Demerara simple syrup (use more or less syrup to taste)

2 dashes Angostura bitters

Mix the ingredients and get them cold however you like (storing a batch in the freezer works). Serve over a large clear ice cube. Garnish with an orange twist and cherry

Demerara simple syrup:

Boil half a cup of demerara sugar, half a cup of water, and the scraped insides of two or three vanilla beans. Cool. Strain if you prefer, or leave the vanilla detritus to settle at the bottom of the glass later

Clear ice is critical. Lots of information online, and this book is also fun

https://www.amazon.com/Ice-Book-Spheres-Cocktail-Crafts/dp/1684352053/ref=sr_1_1

CHAPTER 10

The Jantes might use cloudy ice in their cocktails, but they do know their wine

https://abreuvineyards.com

If you too have a longstanding interest in using genomic and epigenomic approaches to identify novel transcription factors and pathways that regulate processes such as adipogenesis, lipid handling, insulin resistance, and metabolic memory, the Rosen Lab is for you

https://research.bidmc.org/evan-rosen/

The sweet life in a bottle

https://dolcewine.farniente.com/

CHAPTER 11

There really is a mind-numbing amount of information available online regarding how the House works. Like many things—the federal tax code, for example—the fiendish complexity of Congress’s rules is a bug for humanity, but a feature for insiders who know how to exploit what no one else can understand. The advantages of an arcane language in which outsiders are unlikely to be sufficiently motivated to gain fluency is probably one of the reasons simplicity is such a weak force in human affairs and complexity such a strong one

If you’re morbidly curious, here’s a good place to start

https://rules.house.gov/resources/boot-camp/basic-training-house-floor-basics-people-and-process

Around the time I was revising this chapter, the following stories came out (Mitch McConnell’s press conference freeze was already more than a year in the rearview). If I put this stuff in the book, I don’t think people would believe it, but Congress really has become an old-age home and truth really can be stranger than fiction. I’m going to stop updating this note, though, because I can’t keep up

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLcYAy3xOJk

https://www.newsweek.com/virginia-fox-fall-congress-house-injury-2009596

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/12/23/us/politics/kay-granger-congress-age.html

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-14244689/Nancy-Pelosi-emerges-hiding-video-falling-breaking-hip.html

https://x.com/kenklippenstein/status/1885021144245285247

https://x.com/kenklippenstein/status/1886294500504375744

Okay, just one more: fortunately, the gerontocrats have voted themselves private, multimillion-dollar, on-site medical care—the Office of the Attending Physician—though none of the congresspeople who supervise the program will answer a reporter’s questions about it

https://prospect.org/health/2025-02-12-aging-members-congress-office-of-the-attending-physician/

I wrote the fictitious “Manhattan Project for AI” newspaper article before I came across this 2024 U.S.-China Economic and Security Review Commission Report to Congress. The government must stop trying to scoop me

https://www.uscc.gov/sites/default/files/2024-11/2024_Executive_Summary.pdf

And then this happened, too

https://gizmodo.com/report-claims-trumps-100-billion-ai-project-stargate-is-designed-to-benefit-one-company-openai-2000554732

We must not allow a “Mineshaft Gap!”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBan2JkWbhs

CHAPTER 12

Future Combat Systems, the “ghost that won’t go away”

https://nationalinterest.org/blog/buzz/us-army’s-future-combat-systems-ghost-wont-go-away-173473

Littoral Combat Ships, AKA Little Crappy Ships

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/04/us/politics/littoral-combat-ships-lobbying.html

I don’t know where Valeria encountered the expression I pensieri stretti e il viso sciolto, but I came across it in this essay by Paul Graham, who does some of the best such writing I know of

https://paulgraham.com/say.html

Valeria is coming to grips with the way people can use true means for manipulative ends. Or as Tyrian put it in Game of Thrones, the practice of “Making honest feelings do dishonest work”

https://www.tiktok.com/@motivation_beast0/video/7188187644621327621

CHAPTER 13

Some men just want to watch the world burn

https://youtu.be/efHCdKb5UWc?feature=shared&t=44

Curtis LeMay

https://ahf.nuclearmuseum.org/ahf/profile/curtis-lemay/

CHAPTER 14

“Arms Makers See Bonanza In Selling NATO Expansion.” An evergreen phenomenon—this article is from 1997

https://www.nytimes.com/1997/06/29/world/arms-makers-see-bonanza-in-selling-nato-expansion.html

It never ends. From August 2024: “Top Defence Contractors Set to Rake in Record Cash After Orders Soar” (remember, it’s all for “defense,” not for the military or for war)

https://www.ft.com/content/5e368d70-b6e2-4433-a747-cdcfab061f27

And . . . October 2024: “The S&P 500 Aerospace & Defense Industry Index has already climbed 20% this year and is hovering near a record”

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2024-10-08/wall-street-sees-more-room-for-defense-stocks-torrid-advance

See also, War is a Racket

https://www.amazon.com/War-Racket-Smedley-Butler-ebook/dp/B0046W7MEA

We really should recite Mark Twain’s “War Prayer” every time fighter jets fly over a football game

https://www.people.vcu.edu/~toggel/prayer.pdf

CHAPTER 15

“If either one detected more money to be made by switching to the other side, they would switch.” I don’t think there could be a more pristine example of Cranston’s dictum than Mika Brzezinski and Joe Scarborough

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INYSrOjuH3s

For more on corporate news partisan pandering, I recommend Matt Taibbi’s Hate Inc.: Why Today’s Media Makes Us Despise One Another

https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Inc-Todays-Despise-Another-ebook/dp/B08VYWG9DT/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

CHAPTER 16

In Sprawl We Trust

https://www.currentaffairs.org/news/in-sprawl-we-trust

A short history of California’s El Camino Real

http://californiamissionguide.com/california-mission-history/el-camino-real/

George Carlin on turning America into a shopping mall

https://youtu.be/KLODGhEyLvk?si=-8wfMXdG77Vd_9Tw&t=61

CHAPTER 19

The December 15, 2006 date is correct, as is the test pilot’s name, but I changed various other details regarding the maiden flight of the F-35, including moving it from Fort Worth to Palmdale. Here are the facts behind the fiction

https://www.thisdayinaviation.com/tag/jon-s-beesley/

https://www.star-telegram.com/news/business/article119931053.html

Valeria wishing she could ask her father puts me in mind of this exchange, slightly edited, from the 1994 movie Little Odessa:

When a boy is six, he says, “My father knows everything.”

When he’s 12, he says, “My father knows almost everything.”

When he’s 16, he says, “My father is an idiot.”

When he’s 24, he says, “Maybe my father isn’t such an idiot.”

When he’s 40, he says, “I wish I could ask my father.”

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0110365/quotes/

CHAPTER 21

America does indeed have less than five percent of the population of the world, and twenty-five percent of the world’s prisoners. Say what you will, we’re #1

https://worldpopulationreview.com/country-rankings/incarceration-rates-by-country

CHAPTER 22

Eddie the paparazzi has a point about “pretty soon we’ll all be wearing facial recognition sunglasses”

https://www.foxnews.com/tech/facial-recognition-glasses-turn-everyday-life-creepy-privacy-nightmare

For more, see Kashmir Hill’s Your Face Belongs to Us: A Secretive Startup’s Quest to End Privacy as We Know It

https://www.amazon.com/Your-Face-Belongs-Us-Secretive-ebook/dp/B0BQLXNKMQ/ref=sr_1_1

CHAPTER 26

As Senator Frank Church of the eponymous Senate committee investigating abuses by the CIA, FBI, and NSA, put it: “That capability at any time could be turned around on the American people, and no American would have any privacy left, such is the capability to monitor everything: telephone conversations, telegrams, it doesn’t matter. There would be no place to hide.” Church said this a half century ago; today the capabilities he was describing would be considered primitive

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jun/25/frank-church-liberal-icon

A recent review of a book about free will vs. determinism. I’d like to think AI could add some evidence to this debate, but probably as with most things any such evidence will be used to justify preexisting positions

https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2025/02/13/turtles-all-the-way-up-determined-robert-sapolsky

Drop Site News

https://www.dropsitenews.com

Freedom of the Press Foundation

https://freedom.press

CHAPTER 31

If he’s familiar with the puppy-dog principle, I’m more confident than ever that Cranston is familiar with Roger Dawson

https://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Power-Negotiating-2911-Anniversary-dp-1632651963/dp/1632651963/ref=dp_ob_title_bk

Why is a beetle’s exoskeleton hard, anyway?

https://www.snexplores.org/article/diabolical-ironclad-beetle-strong-exoskeleton-nearly-unsquishable

CHAPTER 32

The CIA plotted to assassinate Julian Assange

https://www.yahoo.com/news/kidnapping-assassination-and-a-london-shoot-out-inside-the-ci-as-secret-war-plans-against-wiki-leaks-090057786.html

Two years afterward, 69% of Americans believed Saddam Hussein was personally involved in Nine-Eleven

https://www.brookings.edu/articles/9-11-and-iraq-the-making-of-a-tragedy/

Deconstructing the obvious on who blew up the Nord Stream pipeline

https://www.brusselstimes.com/446104/deconstructing-the-obvious-seymour-hersh-on-why-the-us-blew-up-nord-stream

The Espionage Act, over a hundred years old and still being abused

https://freedom.press/news/americas-official-secrets-act-long-sad-history-100-year-old-espionage-act/

“They know, but they don’t know”

https://youtu.be/5uyRTKPiaJY?si=jeBeJR8TDrPBSdId&t=113

CHAPTER 33

Regarding expectations: many years ago, I was in Tokyo on business. Jetlagged and not yet caffeinated, I trudged along the hotel breakfast buffet, filling my plate. Scrambled eggs etc. Ignored the salad—not my taste for breakfast. I filled a bowl with vanilla yogurt and added fruit salad on top

When I got back to the table, I took a bite of the yogurt/fruit salad combo and almost spit it out. Not yogurt; creamy Italian dressing! Of course not a great combination even if you’d planned it, but it was the dissonant expectation that made the taste seem repulsive

I learned a lot from that. And I have a feeling that to this day, the Japanese hotel guests who watched me ladle fruit salad onto a giant helping of creamy Italian dressing are still talking about it. “Man, those gaijin enjoy the strangest breakfast combinations . . . !”

That attachments can be manipulated in goslings, but not the underlying need to imprint, seems also to apply to human romantic love

https://www.economist.com/obituary/2024/08/29/helen-fisher-found-out-the-science-behind-romance

Power resides where men believe it resides

https://youtu.be/FpL6Fwu0wkw?si=RQsO8393ZoPmWCqb&t=39

CHAPTER 34

Jerry Seinfeld punching down

https://www.govexec.com/federal-news/2014/02/watch-jerry-seinfeld-rip-postal-service/79073/

America’s rulers have become a gerontocracy

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/14/opinion/america-gerontocracy-biden-trump.html

America’s gerontocracy is particularly funny when you consider that the American establishment used to make fun of the Soviet Politburo for being a gerontocracy—when the average age for Soviet rulers was (in retrospect) a sprightly 69

https://www.nytimes.com/1976/03/07/archives/soviet-gerontocracy.html

The Heart of the Matter

https://barryeisler.substack.com

The New York Times, “Paper of Record”

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/21/insider/a-history-of-record-in-the-newspaper-of-record.html

Deaths caused by America’s wars in Southeast Asia

https://www.britannica.com/event/Vietnam-War

Deaths caused by America’s second war in Iraq

https://www.the-independent.com/news/world/middle-east/iraq-war-bush-twentieth-anniversary-b2302031.html

Deaths caused by America’s Global War on Terror

https://watson.brown.edu/costsofwar/#:~:text=Summary,a%20result%20of%20the%20fighting

Five hundred thousand children killed—“Worth it”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5xL_6_GlU4

If you agree with Valeria that if America is ever to have a third party, we’ll first need a second, you might be interested in Andrew Yang’s Forward Party

https://www.forwardparty.com

My thoughts on secrecy agreements and oaths to the Constitution, from a 2016 talk before the Association of Former Intelligence Officers

https://boingboing.net/2016/03/01/on-whistleblowers-and-secrecy.html

The government overclassifies up to 90 percent of information

https://freedom.press/news/new-bipartisan-senate-bill-seeks-to-reduce-overclassification

Even the National Intelligence Director admits government secrecy is out of control

https://www.wsj.com/articles/vast-troves-of-classified-info-undermine-national-security-spy-chief-says-11643286602

The real For The People Act

https://theintercept.com/2021/02/14/democracy-voting-campaign-finance-hr1/

https://theintercept.com/2021/02/01/deconstructed-hr1-save-american-democracy/

If you’re interested in Valeria’s proposal of ranked-choice voting, here’s the real-world version

https://fairvote.org

George Carlin was a national treasure. “It’s called the American Dream ’cause you have to be asleep to believe it”

https://youtu.be/KLODGhEyLvk?si=fPqJIOrQGcVDwKBw&t=649

“He doesn’t know it’s a damn show. He thinks it’s a damn fight.” A great line from a great movie

https://youtu.be/gwVmlR4xFzY?si=H7RGHs2ymgSChLO9&t=174

“And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can’t ride your back unless it is bent.” From MLK’s final speech

https://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkivebeentothemountaintop.htm

George Galloway consistently provides real-time masterclasses on how to deal with twit propagandists and smug simpletons cosplaying as journalists

https://x.com/s_m_marandi/status/1849714110583202001

CHAPTER 35

Why Fox News really fired Tucker Carlson

https://jonathancook.substack.com/p/tucker-carlsons-firing-reveals-how

CHAPTER 36

The U.S. intelligence apparatus (sorry, intelligence “community”) worked with establishment media to falsely claim the Hunter Biden laptop story was Russian “disinformation.” In fact, the story was genuine, and various media outlets—Facebook, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Twitter—that cast doubt on or suppressed the story have subsequently admitted as much. As the suppression campaign’s architects knew, the laptop was legitimate; the real disinformation was their campaign to discredit it

https://greenwald.substack.com/p/the-nyt-now-admits-the-biden-laptop

https://x.com/KanekoaTheGreat/status/1798457753779990987

Seymour Hersh’s story on who really blew up Nord Stream

https://seymourhersh.substack.com/p/how-america-took-out-the-nord-stream

We don’t care if it’s accurate and newsworthy, we need to consider the source

https://x.com/JuddLegum/status/1833132861588680929

Journalists should always publish newsworthy information—even if it’s from a potentially biased source

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/oct/13/wikileaks-emails-trump-clinton-campaign-leaks-media-bias

The Twitter Files . . . Nothingburger?

https://www.racket.news/p/not-a-nothingburger-my-statement

If you don’t think Americans are propagandized, test your convictions with this short article by political scientist Glenn Diesen

https://glenndiesen.substack.com/p/the-science-of-anti-russian-propaganda

CHAPTER 37

The president has about fifteen minutes to decide whether a nuclear attack is happening and whether to launch in response. Also, “only the president has the authority to launch any of the roughly 3,700 nuclear weapons in the American stockpile, an arsenal capable of destroying all human life many times over. And that authority is absolute: No other person in the U.S. government serves as a check or balance once he or she decides to go nuclear”

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2024/03/07/opinion/nuclear-weapons-president.html

It’s interesting to consider that what saved the world from an accidental nuclear war in 1983 (hardly humanity’s only near-miss, or, as George Carlin would more aptly put it, near-hit) was Soviet Lt. Colonel Stanislav Petrov ignoring orders to follow protocol and instead following his gut instinct

https://futureoflife.org/fla-award/future-of-life-award-2018/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TNdihbV5go

Thaddeus’s point that nukes + AI is only marginally more insane than just nukes reminds me of something Voltaire is supposed to have said when asked about the improbability of reincarnation: “It’s no more surprising to be born twice than once”

I wrote this chapter in the summer of 2024. In November of the same year, a friend sent me the following article. It is almost impossible for grounded fiction to stay ahead of actual government insanity

https://www.airandspaceforces.com/stratcom-boss-ai-nuclear-command-control

And there’s this

https://www.cnbc.com/2025/01/30/openai-partners-with-us-national-laboratories-on-scientific-research.html

For another example of the government’s morbid desire to fuse the worst programs into something even more fantastically awful, consider the combination of the War On Terror with the War On Drugs

https://x.com/libsoftiktok/status/1881506966029443514

This scene from Dr. Strangelove can never be watched too much

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNC0YwuGLqg

America is optimizing its offensive and defensive nuclear forces for a preemptive strike

https://thebulletin.org/2017/03/how-us-nuclear-force-modernization-is-undermining-strategic-stability-the-burst-height-compensating-super-fuze/

Half a century ago, antiballistic missile systems threatened to accelerate a terrifying arms race. Plus ça change

https://www.economist.com/international/2024/08/11/can-donald-trumps-iron-dome-plan-keep-america-safe

The government believes America should be prepared to fight a simultaneous nuclear war with China, North Korea, and Russia—and that such a war is winnable

https://responsiblestatecraft.org/biden-nuclear-strategy/

America refuses to pledge not to use nuclear weapons first (China and India both have a no-first-use policy)

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/04/15/opinion/china-nuclear-weapons.html

The Economist calls China, Iran, North Korea, and Russia the “Quartet of Chaos.” For when even the Axis of Evil just won’t do, and I suppose because Smersh and Spectre were already taken

https://www.economist.com/international/2024/09/22/a-new-quartet-of-chaos-threatens-america

“The mission patches, depicting creatures like demons, raptors, the Grim Reaper, and a giant, angry octopus strangling, eating, and/or assaulting the earth, are perhaps telling us something we ought to heed about the collective id of what we refer to in our friendly, benevolent way as the ‘intelligence community’”

https://boingboing.net/2016/03/01/on-whistleblowers-and-secrecy.html

The Story Behind the Comically Villainous Octopus Logo of U.S. Spy Agency

https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/the-story-behind-the-comically-villainous-octopus-logo-of-us-spy-agency

Terrifying mission patches are part of a long tradition

https://www.theverge.com/2016/6/9/11895496/nro-spy-weird-mission-badges-octopus-satan

Emmanuel Goldstein. Even if you don’t know Nineteen Eighty-Four, he should seem familiar

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sUKGQE66tU

Probably not a coincidence that nuclear euphemisms are drawn from football, not baseball

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIkqNiBASfI

Instead of the Football, why not implant the nuclear codes in the chest cavity of an innocent person (ideally a close relative of the president) whose heart the president would have to cut out before exterminating a billion other people?

https://boingboing.net/2015/12/11/proposal-keep-the-nuclear-lau.html#

Then-Vice President Biden called Julian Assange a “high-tech terrorist.” Then-Secretary of State Hillary Clinton claimed Assange had launched an attack on “the international community” and asked, “Why can’t we just drone this guy?” The Trump administration prosecuted, persecuted, and plotted to murder Assange. Ruling-class hatred of dissidents is a thoroughly bipartisan phenomenon. I’d even argue partisanship has nothing to do with it, and that the hatred is based on something else

https://cpj.org/2019/12/press-freedom-julian-assange-wikileaks-defend/

https://x.com/wikileaks/status/782906224937410562

https://www.ifj.org/media-centre/news/detail/category/free-assange/article/us-cia-reportedly-plotted-to-kidnap-and-assassinate-julian-assange

The New York Times suppressed reporting about illegal NSA domestic surveillance when the government asked them to

https://www.npr.org/transcripts/312486719

Conveniently, the president can order his or her preferred nuclear annihilation options as easily as ordering combo items from a menu in a diner

https://www.cnn.com/2017/08/23/politics/nuclear-football-garrett-graff/index.html

Stanley Kubrick hadn’t intended Dr. Strangelove to be satire, but after researching the topic couldn’t see any other way it could be presented

https://collider.com/stanley-kubrick-dr-strangelove-original-story/

CHAPTER 38

The Iwo Jima flag-raising

https://time.com/5788381/iwo-jima-photo/

Desmond Doss receives the Medal of Honor

https://desmonddoss.com/medal-of-honor/

More on Doss’s extraordinary heroism

https://www.npr.org/2016/11/04/500548745/the-real-hacksaw-ridge-soldier-saved-75-souls-without-ever-carrying-a-gun

And Hacksaw Ridge is a phenomenal biopic about Doss’s life. The first time I saw it, I thought the movie was taking liberties with details. It wasn’t. Doss’s heroism is almost inconceivable

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2119532/

Reaching Out during America’s war in Vietnam

https://www.life.com/history/life-behind-the-picture-larry-burrows-reaching-out-vietnam-1966/

President Bush meeting troops during America’s first invasion of Iraq

https://www.defense.gov/Multimedia/Photos/igphoto/2002068344/

What atomic bombs do to human beings

https://www.gettyimages.com/photos/hiroshima-victims

https://www.life.com/history/hiroshima-portraits-of-survivors/

Vietnamese children fleeing an American napalm attack

https://aboutphotography.blog/blog/the-terror-of-war-nick-uts-napalm-girl-1972

https://www.peacestep.com/tag/kim-phuc/

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/06/06/opinion/kim-phuc-vietnam-napalm-girl-photograph.html

Iraqi soldier burned alive

https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2014/08/the-war-photo-no-one-would-publish/375762/

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/wintour-and-watt/2011/mar/21/libya-davidcameron

Abu Ghraib photos

https://www.spiegel.de/fotostrecke/photo-gallery-the-abu-ghraib-pictures-fotostrecke-29031.html

Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here, this is the War Room!

https://youtu.be/UzSMv02xPyI?feature=shared&t=74

Limiting ostensible objections as a way to close the sale? References to vague higher authority? Cranston has definitely read Roger Dawson

https://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Power-Negotiating-25th-Anniversary-dp-1632651963/dp/1632651963/ref=dp_ob_title_bk

America spends more on the military (sorry, “defense”) than the next ten countries combined, eight of which are America’s allies or partners

https://www.pgpf.org/chart-archive/0053_defense-comparison

AI can invent novel antibiotics

https://med.stanford.edu/news/all-news/2024/03/ai-drug-development.html

And also novel viruses

https://fedscoop.com/dhs-official-ai-could-exacerbate-chemical-and-biological-threats/

https://time.com/7014800/ai-pandemic-bioterrorism/

CHAPTER 41

The Cone of Silence, always called for when there’s a Magenta Alert

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWtPPWi6OMQ

Speaker of the House Mike Johnson was dead-set on opposing domestic surveillance—until something was explained to him in a classified briefing

https://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2024/apr/11/mike-johnson-explains-his-flip-flop-on-warrants-fo/

“If there is even a one percent chance that terrorists will acquire weapons of mass destruction, the United States must act as though it were a certainty”

https://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/20/books/20kaku.html

CHAPTER 42

Cobalt Bombs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANIc4NKj6WQ&t=524s

Neutron Bombs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mv6HVA0Bu9w

The Holmesburg Prison Experiments

https://www.prison-insider.com/en/articles/usa-the-holmesburg-prison-experiments

CHAPTER 43

For more on the importance of listening to your gut, I recommend Gavin de Becker’s The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us From Violence

https://www.amazon.com/Gift-Fear-Gavin-Becker-ebook/dp/B0036Z9U2A/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

“We kill people based on metadata”

https://www.nybooks.com/online/2014/05/10/we-kill-people-based-metadata

Rorschach and one of the baddest-ass lines ever

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_3Yp2Izhks

Edward Snowden was a Russian spy! No, a Chinese spy! No, a Russian Chinese spy!

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2015/jun/14/snowden-files-read-by-russia-and-china-five-questions-for-uk-government

The notion that investigative reporting is “aiding and abetting”—doubly extraordinary, given that it was articulated by someone who seems to self-identify as a journalist

https://www.thenation.com/article/archive/glenn-greenwald-aiding-and-abetting-democracy/

“What if everyone did what that whistleblower did?” is a common rubric, but not one that stands up to a bit of thought

https://boingboing.net/2016/03/01/on-whistleblowers-and-secrecy.html

CHAPTER 45

Yeats’s Aedh Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven. Eight lines, so beautiful

https://poets.org/poem/aedh-wishes-cloths-heaven

Once arriving at Grand Central Station, Thaddeus will unavoidably leave a persistent trail of breadcrumbs. When I first depicted investigators using camera networks and facial recognition to track a suspect, in 2016’s The God’s Eye View, it was still mostly fiction. Not anymore

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/12/07/nyregion/ceo-brian-thompson-gunman-video.html

In 2013, Edward Snowden revealed a “retrospective retrieval” program called MYSTIC that in essence enabled the NSA to rewind and review the tape of past events. MYSTIC stored telephone calls, but the concept and the capability is far broader than just that

https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/nsa-surveillance-program-reaches-into-the-past-to-retrieve-replay-phone-calls/2014/03/18/226d2646-ade9-11e3-a49e-76adc9210f19_story.html

CHAPTER 47

If you’re interested in the fundamentals of surveillance and countersurveillance, the article “Surveillance/Countersurveillance” is a good primer. “Personal Safety Tips From Assassin John Rain” might also be useful

https://www.barryeisler.com/extras/

Sometimes you have to just move out, even if the other person you’re helping wants to keep talking

https://youtu.be/h3Fbdca6PBI?si=e87LmtU4QuN9kQEI&t=238

CHAPTER 48

I think Héctor must have learned “Those who talk can usually be persuaded to walk” from self-defense coach Tony Blauer

https://survivaldispatch.com/pre-fight-strategy-trojan-horse-principle/

CHAPTER 50

A pristine example of the vote trading Brandon refers to, this one with regard to “Defund The Police—Just Not My Police”

https://greenwald.substack.com/p/the-squad-enables-pelosis-massive

CHAPTER 52

Orwell’s Politics And The English Language

“The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one’s real and one’s declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink . . .”

https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/essays-and-other-works/politics-and-the-english-language/

CHAPTER 53

For a primer on awareness, alertness, and avoidance (hat tip to Montie Cranston for the alliteration), see Personal Safety Tips From Assassin John Rain, and Surveillance/Countersurveillance at the link below. The recommended reading in the former will take you much deeper

https://www.barryeisler.com/extras/

Freedom of the Press Foundation’s primer on digital security

https://freedom.press/digisec/guides/

And Electronic Frontier Foundation’s

https://www.eff.org/pages/tools

Valeria is indebted for her thoughts on Congressional reform to the following article

https://www.politico.com/news/magazine/2022/11/15/how-to-fix-congress-new-members-00066873

“We shall know soon enough”

https://youtu.be/b2ycQrfJINo?feature=shared&t=217

Mike Gravel and the Pentagon Papers

https://freedom.press/news/fifty-years-ago-today-senator-mike-gravel-read-the-pentagon-papers-into-the-official-record-more-lawmakers-should-follow-his-lead/

CHAPTER 54

Charlie Wilson’s War—excellent book by George Crile; excellent movie adaptation by Aaron Sorkin and Mike Nichols

https://www.amazon.com/Charlie-Wilsons-War-George-Crile-ebook/dp/B008V43QWQ/ref=sr_1_1

A quite remarkable post-presidency friendship between not just Ford and Carter, but their wives, as well

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/08/us/politics/carter-ford-friendship.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare

Since I mentioned Charlie Wilson, here’s the movie’s version of Valeria’s, “I don’t know yet”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FWjipa2Ztw

An instance of congresspeople trading “no” and “present” votes to maintain political cover—but only when they know the bill in question will pass anyway

https://x.com/ggreenwald/status/1441393969359953922

Congress and the Pentagon work to distribute weapons programs across as many states as possible to make the programs impossible to cancel. The F-35 is built in every state in the union but two (see #9 in “Everything You Need to Know About the F-35C”)

https://www.f35.com/f35/news-and-features/everything-you-need-to-know-about-the-f-35c.html

CHAPTER 55

“Eminence Front” . . . it’s a put-on . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rx6Zgz0TZuA

Valeria is hardly the first politician to make impressive speeches about state security overreach and then reverse herself. Obama did it in July 2008 regarding amnesty for law-breaking telecoms on his way to the presidency; more recently, Mike Johnson did it regarding FISA Section 702 warrantless domestic spying after being elected Speaker of the House; Tulsi Gabbard also did it regarding Section 702 after Trump nominated her to be Director of National Intelligence (though Gabbard refused to cave to puerile and propagandistic demands by various senators to call Edward Snowden a traitor), to name just a few. And one-time Democratic enfant terrible AOC is now a “team player”

https://barryeisler.blogspot.com/2008/07/obama-caves-on-warrantless-surveillance.html

https://thehill.com/homenews/house/4589152-speakership-turns-johnson-from-fisa-critic-to-champion/

https://x.com/ggreenwald/status/1877724616560377903

https://x.com/NathanJRobinson/status/1879280023254999270

“The amoeba outlives the tiger because it divides and conquers in its immortal monotony.” Wall’s amoeba analogy is of course a reference to Trevanian’s Shibumi, a book that influenced my writing and that I’ve loved since I was a teenager

https://www.amazon.com/Shibumi-Novel-Trevanian-ebook/dp/B000FCK4HC/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

CHAPTER 56

Congress is a gerontocracy

https://bruinpoliticalreview.org/articles?post-slug=a-generational-battle-the-implications-of-american-gerontocracy

https://www.psu.edu/news/research/story/qa-what-does-aging-congress-mean-much-younger-nation

“Dean of the House” is a real thing, though I prefer “Methuselah” because it’s shorter

https://x.com/mtracey/status/1880476670484005356

It was actually Kamala Harris who pledged in her 2024 DNC acceptance speech to “ensure America always has the strongest, most lethal fighting force in the world”

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/harris-promises-most-lethal-military

For more on stories as fractals and much more, I recommend John Yorke’s Into the Woods: A Five-Act Journey Into Story

https://www.amazon.com/Into-Woods-Five-Act-Journey-Story-ebook/dp/B07MWBM5SW/ref=sr_1_1

“When the legend becomes fact . . . print the legend”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iCGSJkIx_w

CHAPTER 58

Yada yada yada

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwhUSEDVmLc

“Look, I have one job on this lousy ship! It’s stupid, but I’m gonna do it, okay?”

https://youtu.be/W4CgQMJCpZI?feature=shared&t=41

If you think Valeria was exaggerating in feeling like the Congressional floor speech she was being subjected to was written by an AI, here’s the real thing, see for yourself

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqHiBFFBv78

“The awful daring of a moment’s surrender/Which an age of prudence can never retract” is from T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land

Senator Dianne Feinstein could have done with her committee’s torture report exactly what Senator Mike Gravel did with the Pentagon Papers. But as George Carlin said, it’s a big club. And while you and I ain’t in it, senators and directors of central intelligence are

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/mar/23/dianne-feinstein-cia-senate-tony-soprano

Senator Ron Wyden also could have blown the whistle, on the NSA’s unconstitutional domestic bulk surveillance programs. Like Feinstein, Wyden had full Speech and Debate constitutional immunity but instead left it to whistleblower Edward Snowden to inform the public

https://x.com/ggreenwald/status/1884956668599165373

Senator Patrick Leahy, another profile in courage. Extraordinary not only that he failed to go public with this information, but that he doesn’t realize his failure is shameful

https://x.com/Villgecrazylady/status/1917887172427890946

CHAPTER 61

“The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it” is George Bernard Shaw

https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/george_bernard_shaw_105994

Congresswoman Byer is quoting real-life Senator Chuck Schumer, who acknowledged, “You take on the intelligence community, they have six ways from Sunday of getting back at you”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mgQ_A5Iyes

Does anyone still understand the Security Dilemma?

https://quincyinst.org/2022/07/26/does-anyone-still-understand-the-security-dilemma/

“This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. The cost of one modern heavy bomber is this: a modern brick school in more than thirty cities. It is two electric power plants, each serving a town of 60,000 population. It is two fine, fully equipped hospitals. It is some fifty miles of concrete pavement. We pay for a single fighter with a half-million bushels of wheat. We pay for a single destroyer with new homes that could have housed more than 8,000 people . . . This is not a way of life at all, in any true sense. Under the cloud of threatening war, it is humanity hanging from a cross of iron”

https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/address-the-chance-for-peace-delivered-before-the-american-society-newspaper-editors

Walls’s zero-sum philosophy might seem superficially appealing, but it’s at best incomplete and certainly not always applicable

https://nonzero.substack.com

INFLUENTIAL WORKS

The following works have informed this story:

This one-hour conversation between Glenn Greenwald and Jeffrey Sachs is as good a primer on the influence of the deep state (or call it the administrative state, the blob, the permanent bureaucracy, or whatever else you like) as I’ve ever come across

https://rumble.com/v5hhnw5-professor-jeffrey-sachs-on-ukraine-russia-israel-and-2024-system-update-347.html

For more on the blob (such a perfect description), Robert Wright is a good place to start

https://responsiblestatecraft.org/2021/10/13/toward-a-unified-theory-of-blob-dom/

Another succinct summary of the blob

https://www.scmp.com/opinion/article/3283504/how-blob-frighteningly-took-over-american-foreign-policy

This conversation between Professor Sachs and John Mearsheimer is also excellent

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvFtyDy_Bt0

1984, George Orwell

The Age of Illusions: How America Squandered Its Cold War Victory, Andrew Bacevich

The Affair: The Case of Alfred Dreyfus, Jean-Denis Bredin

American Exception: Empire and the Deep State, Aaron Good

American Kleptocracy: How the U.S. Created the Greatest Money Laundering Scheme in History, Casey Michel

America’s War for the Greater Middle East: A Military History, Andrew Bacevich

Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, Neil Postman

The Assassination Complex: Inside the Government’s Secret Drone Warfare Program, Jeremy Scahill

The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream, Barack Obama

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup, John Carreyrou

The Bidens: Inside the First Family’s Fifty-Year Rise to Power, Ben Schreckinger

Breach of Trust: How Americans Failed Their Soldiers and Their Country, Andrew Bacevich

Citizenfour, Laura Poitras

City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles, Mike Davis

Confessions of an Advertising Man, David Ogilvy

Confessions of an Economic Hitman, John Perkins

Crushed: Big Tech’s War on Free Speech, Ken Buck

Dark Mirror: Edward Snowden and the Surveillance State, Barton Gellman

The Dark Money Game, Alex Gibney

The Devil’s Chessboard: Allen Dulles, the CIA, and the Rise of America’s Secret Government, David Talbot

The Divide: American Injustice in the Age of the Wealth Gap, Matt Taibbi

Forward: Notes on the Future of Our Democracy, Andrew Yang

Griftopia: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids, and the Long Con that is Breaking America, Matt Taibbi

Guilty of Journalism: The Political Case Against Julian Assange, Kevin Gosztola

Hate Inc: Why Today’s Media Makes Us Despise One Another, Matt Taibbi

The Hell of Good Intentions: America’s Foreign Policy Elite and the Decline of U.S. Primacy, Stephen Walt

The Kill Chain: Defending America in the Future of High-Tech Warfare, Christian Brose

Knock Down the House: A Netflix Original Documentary, Robin Blotnick and Rachel Lears

Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA, Tim Weiner

Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media, Edward S. Herman and Noam Chomsky

The Myth of American Idealism: How U.S. Foreign Policy Endangers the World, by Noam Chomsky and Nathan J. Robinson

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, Michelle Alexander

Nuclear War: A Scenario, Annie Jacobsen

On Power, Robert A. Caro

The People, No: A Brief History of Anti-Populism, Thomas Frank

The Panama Papers, Alex Winter

Permanent Record, Edward Snowden

The Pitfalls of Liberalism, Stokely Carmichael

Progressive Capitalism: How to Make Tech Work for All of Us, Ro Khanna

No Place to Hide: Edward Snowden, the NSA, and the U.S. Surveillance State, Glenn Greenwald

The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York, Robert A. Caro

Predator Nation: Corporate Criminals, Political Corruption, and the Hijacking of America, Charles Ferguson

The Prince, Niccolò Machiavelli

The Putin Interviews: Oliver Stone Interviews Vladimir Putin, Oliver Stone

The Rebels: Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and the Struggle for a New American Politics, Joshua Green

Reporter: A Memoir, Seymour Hersh

The Revolt of the Public and the Crisis of Authority in the New Millennium, Martin Gurri

Risk, Laura Poitras

Secrecy World: Inside the Panama Papers Investigation of Illicit Money Networks and the Global Elite, Jake Bernstein

The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, Naomi Klein

Sleeping With the Devil: How Washington Sold Our Soul for Saudi Crude, Robert Baer

Spies for Hire: The Secret World of Intelligence Outsourcing, Tim Shorrock

The Spoils of War: Power, Profit and the American War Machine, Andrew Cockburn

The Squad: AOC and the Hope of a Political Revolution, Ryan Grim

The Think Tank Racket: Managing the Information War With Russia, Glenn Diesen

Top Secret America: The Rise of the New American Security State, Dana Priest and William Arkin

The Trillion Dollar Meltdown: Easy Money, High Rollers, and the Great Credit Crash, Charles Morris

Uncovered: How the Media Got Cozy with Power, Abandoned Its Principles, and Lost the People, Steve Krakauer

The Untold History of the United States, Oliver Stone and Peter Kuznick

Utopia For Realists: How We Can Build the Ideal World, Rutger Bregman

Wall Street's War on Workers: How Mass Layoffs and Greed Are Destroying the Working Class and What to Do About It, Les Leopold

War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, Chris Hedges

War is a Racket, Smedley D. Butler

We Steal Secrets, Alex Gibney

When Google Met Wikileaks, Julian Assange

You Can Get Anything You Want (But You Have to Do More Than Ask), Roger Dawson

Master Plan

The Afghanistan Papers: A Secret History of the War, Craig Whitlock

“The Panama Papers”

“The Pandora Papers”

“The Paradise Papers”

“The Pentagon Papers”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Douglas Sonders

New York Times bestselling author Barry Eisler spent three years in a covert position with the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, then worked as a technology lawyer and start-up executive in Silicon Valley and Japan, earning his black belt at the Kodokan Judo Institute along the way. Eisler’s award-winning thrillers have been included in numerous “best of” lists; have been translated into nearly twenty languages; and include the #1 bestsellers The Detachment, Livia Lone, The Night Trade, and The Killer Collective. Eisler lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and, when he’s not at work on a new novel, writes about national security and the media. For more information, visit www.barryeisler.com or https://substack.com/@barryeisler.