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ChapterNineteen
Brennan
Then
The prime minister said it would be impossible to get everyone together and hash this out in person, but no one turns down an invite to a state dinner.
We can work through our intractable issues. Strategize together and come to the UN with one united voice. This is our chance to do things differently than before.
I’m bleeding optimism like I’ve slit my veins open.
My father wanders my thoughts.
Alexander Walker was a brilliant man, and he devoured everything life could throw his way. He wanted to save the world, and he wanted to do so one person at a time. The month after I was born, the letters he wrote me were about his hopes for the impact our family could have on the world. We’d live in Africa, Asia, South America. He’d teach me everything, until I was a medic like him—better than him, even.
His mind burned hot, and every one of his dreams was rooted in a desire to help others.
If you’re reading these words, he wrote a few days before he was shot down, then I’m gone. But the best part of me will always live within you, Brennan.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s true, or if I would have disappointed him had he lived. Let him down in all the ways a son can let down his father.
Brennan, always remember that good men make their own way when all the options are bad. Choose good. Always choose good.
Which way am I pointing? Is this a chance to avert another Rwanda, Somalia, Darfur, or Yugoslavia?Or am I treading the path of good intentions while not feeling the fire that’s about to engulf me?
Choose good, son.
I’m trying, Dad.
I’ve scheduled a full working day for the twelve of us—presidents, prime ministers, and one chancellor—after the state dinner. Twelve heads of government locked in a room? Either nothing will happen, or everything will.
My life is accelerating, and the purpose I’ve dedicated my existence to is here. We are standing in prehistory, and ahead of me, I glimpse a new course for the world. Lives are saved. Entrenched evil is rooted out and rousted. We are victorious together.
Every moment is spent in furious planning. There are logistics, operations, strategies. Policies and proposals. We all run ragged, and I sleep in thirty-minute increments on the Oval Office sofa while Matt keeps the doors locked.
Reese is a ghost.
He’s like a phantom limb, there in my life and then gone so suddenly that I still feel his presence as if he’s by my side. Hints of him linger. His scent in the Residence, on my pillow, in the West Sitting Hall. The shape of him on my lounge on the Truman Balcony. We crisscross the West Wing, but never at the same time. I hear his name in passing, see his afterimage.
The Secret Service is a kicked-over beehive, frenetic with its own preparations. If I’m busy trying to change the world, Reese is equally consumed with trying to make sure we all survive the night in order to live in it.
We text like we’re leaving Post-its for each other: “Miss you.” “Miss you too, mon cher.”
Reese delivers the official briefing on the Secret Service’s comprehensive security package for the event. Henry is there, but there’s no banter, no jokes about flying off to the Bahamas. Nuñez and a handful of other agents represent the different team leads within the detail: snipers, bomb squad, CAT, communications.
This will be the most scripted event of my presidency thus far. Reese has put together a tight plan, respectful of the uniqueness of the moment but unflinching in his protection.
“This is amazing work, Agent Theriot.”
“It was a group effort, sir.” He nods to Henry, who gives me what could only generously be called a wan smile. The entire team looks exhausted. “We’re going to be starting dry runs and rehearsals for timing, Mr. President. We’ll do our best to stay out of your way.”
“You have anything and everything you need from me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And that’s it. This is the most contact I’ve had in days with my… lover? Boyfriend? Impossible heartthrob?
The briefing is over, and Reese collects his laptop, shakes my hand, and heads for the door. My nails drag over my palms. I’m like water just before the boil. Ready to burst, ready to burn. Shimmering down to my atoms.
