Free Day Zero by Marc Cameron Page A

wall, next to the Remington Rough Rider bronze. He used long, slender fingers to rub exhausted eyes as he tried to clear the image of this idiot out of his mind.
    Drake sat with his feet propped up on the Resolute Desk, leaning back in a plush button-leather chair. He cradled his head in his hands as if he owned the world—which, in fact, he did. His trademark bowtie, this one a conservative red-and-black stripe, hung open. His collar was still buttoned, as if everyone at the meeting had surprised him in the middle of changing clothes.
    Across the room, Kurt Bodington, the director of the FBI, sat on one of the green sofas. He leaned forward with his elbows on both knees as if he was on the toilet rather than sitting in the Oval Office. Virginia Ross, the director of the CIA, sat beside him. Her ankles were crossed, her hands rested in her lap, like she was posing for a photo. More pear than hourglass, she’d recently lost a considerable amount of weight and wore clothes that were a size too large. The lacy cuffs of a white blouse hung from the sleeves of a voluminous blue suit that had once strained to keep her contained.
    It had been obvious from the time McKeon and Drake took office that neither of these directors was particularly effective in their respective positions. And that was the only reason they were still in place.
    A Japanese woman stood on the other side of the door from McKeon, hands folded at her lap. Her name was Ran. Japanese for orchid , it was pronounced to rhyme with the American name Ron but with a hard r , making it sound more like Lon or Don . In her early twenties, she had flawlessly smooth skin and a quiet presence that reached out into the room, touching anyone who dared look in her direction. She wore a cream-colored long sleeve blouse, unbuttoned enough to reveal the edge of a dark tattoo at her breast. McKeon knew firsthand that there were many more tattoos where that one came from. Director Bodington had unwisely attempted to shake her hand when he’d come in, but Ross had veered away from her as if she were poison—which was not far off. She worked as an aide—among other things—for McKeon and, to his wife’s chagrin, rarely left his side.
    “Chris Clark left me a real mess,” Drake said, staring absentmindedly at his reflection in the windows that overlooked the Rose Garden. The man couldn’t walk past a silver tea set without stopping to admire his physique. “I need to know what Winfield Palmer had going with him.”
    Bodington gave a concerned nod, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. He liked to paint himself as a big-picture man, but McKeon saw him as more of a paint-by-the-numbers stooge. The director of the most advanced law enforcement agency in the world was happy to do just what he was told and never dared to go outside the lines.
    Virginia Ross spoke first.
    “The national security advisor’s communications to the president would be privileged,” she said. “But I’m sure he left files. With the tragedy, it would be expected he’d turn them over to you for a seamless transition.”
    Nearly half a year after the assassination of both President Chris Clark and Vice President Bob Hughes during the last State of the Union address, people simply called it “the tragedy.”
    Unwilling to give his counterpart from the CIA too much floor time, Bodington spoke up before Ross could say more. “I have to be honest, Mr. President,” he said. “I never did understand the absolute power President Clark gave to Winfield Palmer. Sure, they were friends from their days at West Point, but the man seemed to have carte blanche in the intelligence community. He could override anyone and everyone with his special projects. The President took virtually every matter of state to the man as if he were some oracle or something.”
    “They were friends, Kurt,” Director Ross said. “Surely even you can understand what that would mean.”
    Bodington gave her a withering