Page 49 of Enemy Within
She understood only too well. Were they presiding over the end of America? Was this what Rome felt like, before the republic was overrun?
“Paul, keep trying with the Canadians. Tell them I want to speak to the prime minister immediately. Director, see if you can get any more information on what the Canadians and Russians are talking about. Work your backchannels. General, keep an eye on the Chinese fleet, and get our forces in Hawaii out in front of them.” She nodded to the group, dismissing them.
After they left, she collapsed in her chair, scrubbing her hands over her face.
“Madam President?” Levi spoke softly, and his footfalls over the carpet were gentle.
“Can you give me some good news, Levi?” Her hands fell to the chair arms. “Please tell me you have information on the mole.”
His eyes pinched, and his expression went tight. He shook his head. “I’ve been going over Scott’s notes. He went through the Secret Service again. Combed through all of us. I’m doing it again, to be sure.”
She bit her lip, frowning.
“I’m starting with everyone on the plane when the president was in Russia for the funeral. Who could have smuggled the photos out of Russia and back to the US? Put them in his bag?”
When Jack had returned from Evgeni Konnikov’s state funeral in Russia, photos of him overseas—in the private spaces of the Kremlin—had appeared in his duffel, marked with Madigan’s signature: an M circled in red. Usually done in blood, but on the photos, it had been a red marker. A sign, a signal that Jack wasn’t safe, not even in the White House. A dangerous warning from Madigan, something they all saw too late, putting the pieces together only after Leslie’s attempt on Jack’s life.
She peered at Levi, studying him. She trusted him, more than she trusted anyone else in the White House. He slept feet from her every night. Why hadn’t she shared the last bit of information with him? Why was she holding back?
It was Madigan’s last gift: a virulent distrust of everyone. It was like a virus, a palpable sickness that hung in the air. She saw it in the eyes of everyone who spoke to her. Could they even trust her? Could she trust them in return? This was no way to run a government or a nation. They’d crumble from within, fast, and Madigan or Moroshkin wouldn’t have to fire a shot. Or ignite the sky.
“Levi,” she said, sitting forward. She braced her elbows on the desk and looked him in the eye. “There’s something else. Something I haven’t told you.”
Levi froze. He stared at her, not blinking.
“When Jack called, he told me there were more photos that Ethan had found at Madigan’s old base. When Ethan found out the truth about Leslie Spiers.”
“Photos of what?”
“Jack and Ethan, here in the White House. Surveillance-style photos. Someone taking pictures from inside. In the West Wing. Outside the Residence. In their private time, of their private lives.”
Levi hissed and spun away, his hands clenching as he paced before the Resolute desk. She watched him, tracking his movements for two turns before she spoke again. “The people who have that kind of access to the White House are limited.”
Levi nodded. He tipped his head back. “Unrestricted West Wing and White House access? It’s not a long list.”
“Can you run through the background of the White House staffers who have that level of clearance?”
“I already started. I’ll take it deeper, though.”
“What about executive staff? Advisors, officers, cabinet positions?”
“Looking at them, too. But—” He stopped. Pressed his lips together. “Who could have put the pictures both in the president’s duffel and taken photos of him during off time? In private spaces?”
It was her turn to stay quiet.
He sighed, shaking his head. “It feels like a Secret Service agent,” he breathed. “Wehave that kind of access. And it was mostly agents on the flight to Russia. It was a lean crew. But a big force of agents. Scott’s orders.”
She closed her eyes. Unease slid down her spine, and distrust choked her throat. “Who do we trust, Levi?”
Was Levi trustable, even?
“I don’t know,” he said softly.
WELBY’S EYES FLICKED DOWN the hall, watching as Levi slipped out of the Oval Office. He frowned. Levi’s suit was rumpled, and his normally impeccable appearance was noticeably off. Like he’d been sleeping in his clothes, and not sleeping very well at that. Deep lines had burrowed into Levi’s face almost overnight, two cratering frown lines across his forehead and two bracketing his downturned lips. It was strange to see Levi, normally upbeat and always ready with a smile, scowling all the time.
Though there hadn’t been many smiles since the blast. Since the president’s assassination.
Welby swallowed slowly and forced the memories out of his mind. He focused on the wall, on the butter-yellow paint and a dark handprint, a smudge left by someone leaning carelessly against the wall.
