worst secretary of state in history.”
“What a joke,” a voice said from behind Jimmie.
Jimmie glanced over his shoulder. A solidly built man clad in a gray hoodie and jeans had crept up behind him. He didn’t know if this was some random weirdo or the person who’d tapped out the code. Either way, Jimmie had to assume he was dangerous.
“A joke?” Jimmie said. “People died over there.”
“Read the plaque.”
“It’s covered in moss.”
“Then wipe it off,” the man said with growing irritation.
“I’ve never liked moss,” Jimmie said. “It feels weird. It’s furry.”
“Cats are furry, and people pet them all the time.”
“They’re not green. Most of them, at least.”
The man crossed in front of Jimmie and, with his hand wrapped in his jacket, wiped the plaque off. He stepped back and let Jimmie read the bronze tablet bolted into the stone:
IN MEMORY OF THE MEN AND WOMEN
WHO SERVED ON THE HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE ON BENGHAZI
AND SO VALIANTLY GAVE OF THEIR TIME
WE HONOR AND REMEMBER THEIR SACRIFICE
Jimmie took a closer look at the engravings that spanned the length of the wall. “Trey Gowdy, SC-04,” he read aloud. “Susan Brooks, IN-05. Jim Jordan, OH-04. Mike Pompeo . . . KS-04.” There were eight more names in the sequence before they repeated—a total of twelve names.
“This isn’t the Benghazi Memorial,” the stranger said. “It’s the Benghazi Hearings Memorial. It’s a memorial for the politicians who wasted their time interrogating Hillary Clinton about the Benghazi attacks. I’m no fan of hers, but the Right continues to treat her like she’s some kind of war criminal. The man who built this could care less that four Americans died that night in Libya.”
“And the man who built this wall . . .”
“Is your new boss,” the stranger said. “Welcome to Washington, Mr. Bernwood.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hope Is a Four-Letter Word
“I hope you didn’t invite me here to debate politics,” Jimmie said, keeping a few paces between him and his new best friend. “Because I ain’t that guy.”
The man removed his hood. He wasn’t a man so much as a boy—a baby-faced boy, at that. He had short, cropped blond hair, mostly hidden by a backward blue baseball cap. He was half a foot taller than Jimmie and at least ten years younger. It would have surprised Jimmie if the kid was old enough to buy a drink.
“No phone?” the kid said.
Jimmie shook his head.
“Good. Be careful with that thing—they’re tracing your every step. Recording every conversation within range when it’s powered on.”
That didn’t seem possible to Jimmie, but he kept that to himself. What did this kid know? Well, probably more about technology than he did, but still. Jimmie Bernwood had been around the block a few times, especially when it came to hidden recordings.
“Connor Brent,” the kid said without offering a hand.
“And you know who I am, apparently,” Jimmie said.
“You’re the new ghostwriter.”
He’d signed an NDA. Nobody was supposed to know about his involvement with the project outside of the White House. Not even the publisher, Crooked Lane.
“Oh, come on,” Connor said. “Don’t act dumb. The White House visitor logs are public. Everyone who walks through that front door—tourist or staff member, doesn’t matter—is tracked online at WhiteHouse.gov. You signed in to see the apprentice. Reporters don’t get that kind of access, especially not a blogger.”
Blogger? Oh, hell no .
That prep-school accent made Jimmie eager to slap him across the face. The only reason he didn’t do it was because he was afraid of cutting his palm on those sharp cheekbones.
Those sharp, perfect cheekbones.
“I’m a journalist,” Jimmie said. “Use the B-word again, and I walk.”
“Calm your tits, bro,” Connor said. “I’m not here to start some fight over the state of modern journalism. In fact, we have mad respect for what you did to Cruz.”
That
“What a joke,” a voice said from behind Jimmie.
Jimmie glanced over his shoulder. A solidly built man clad in a gray hoodie and jeans had crept up behind him. He didn’t know if this was some random weirdo or the person who’d tapped out the code. Either way, Jimmie had to assume he was dangerous.
“A joke?” Jimmie said. “People died over there.”
“Read the plaque.”
“It’s covered in moss.”
“Then wipe it off,” the man said with growing irritation.
“I’ve never liked moss,” Jimmie said. “It feels weird. It’s furry.”
“Cats are furry, and people pet them all the time.”
“They’re not green. Most of them, at least.”
The man crossed in front of Jimmie and, with his hand wrapped in his jacket, wiped the plaque off. He stepped back and let Jimmie read the bronze tablet bolted into the stone:
IN MEMORY OF THE MEN AND WOMEN
WHO SERVED ON THE HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE ON BENGHAZI
AND SO VALIANTLY GAVE OF THEIR TIME
WE HONOR AND REMEMBER THEIR SACRIFICE
Jimmie took a closer look at the engravings that spanned the length of the wall. “Trey Gowdy, SC-04,” he read aloud. “Susan Brooks, IN-05. Jim Jordan, OH-04. Mike Pompeo . . . KS-04.” There were eight more names in the sequence before they repeated—a total of twelve names.
“This isn’t the Benghazi Memorial,” the stranger said. “It’s the Benghazi Hearings Memorial. It’s a memorial for the politicians who wasted their time interrogating Hillary Clinton about the Benghazi attacks. I’m no fan of hers, but the Right continues to treat her like she’s some kind of war criminal. The man who built this could care less that four Americans died that night in Libya.”
“And the man who built this wall . . .”
“Is your new boss,” the stranger said. “Welcome to Washington, Mr. Bernwood.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hope Is a Four-Letter Word
“I hope you didn’t invite me here to debate politics,” Jimmie said, keeping a few paces between him and his new best friend. “Because I ain’t that guy.”
The man removed his hood. He wasn’t a man so much as a boy—a baby-faced boy, at that. He had short, cropped blond hair, mostly hidden by a backward blue baseball cap. He was half a foot taller than Jimmie and at least ten years younger. It would have surprised Jimmie if the kid was old enough to buy a drink.
“No phone?” the kid said.
Jimmie shook his head.
“Good. Be careful with that thing—they’re tracing your every step. Recording every conversation within range when it’s powered on.”
That didn’t seem possible to Jimmie, but he kept that to himself. What did this kid know? Well, probably more about technology than he did, but still. Jimmie Bernwood had been around the block a few times, especially when it came to hidden recordings.
“Connor Brent,” the kid said without offering a hand.
“And you know who I am, apparently,” Jimmie said.
“You’re the new ghostwriter.”
He’d signed an NDA. Nobody was supposed to know about his involvement with the project outside of the White House. Not even the publisher, Crooked Lane.
“Oh, come on,” Connor said. “Don’t act dumb. The White House visitor logs are public. Everyone who walks through that front door—tourist or staff member, doesn’t matter—is tracked online at WhiteHouse.gov. You signed in to see the apprentice. Reporters don’t get that kind of access, especially not a blogger.”
Blogger? Oh, hell no .
That prep-school accent made Jimmie eager to slap him across the face. The only reason he didn’t do it was because he was afraid of cutting his palm on those sharp cheekbones.
Those sharp, perfect cheekbones.
“I’m a journalist,” Jimmie said. “Use the B-word again, and I walk.”
“Calm your tits, bro,” Connor said. “I’m not here to start some fight over the state of modern journalism. In fact, we have mad respect for what you did to Cruz.”
That
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