Midnight Read online

  MIDNIGHT

  Book 1

  THE CONSPIRATORS

  1. “h”

  "The Devil is in the details.”

  ― Ludwig Mies Van Der Rohe

  April 25th, 2033. It was barely six thirty in the morning, and the metro’s Blue Line carried only a few passengers as it wound up from Franconia-Springfield towards Washington. There was a man in a military uniform, a few ribbons pinned to his wide chest, headed obviously for the Pentagon. A suited gentleman (gentleman because ‘man’ would not do him justice - he was a remnant from a previous era, white bearded and white haired, crisp collared with bow tie and a bowler hat) sat reading a newspaper. A chic woman in blue sat with her ankles crossed, hiding her face behind truly enormous jet black sunglasses. Behind her lounged a young woman, in a clean white blouse and brown satin trousers, reading intently from the book World Order by Henry Kissinger.

  This young woman was athletic, and pretty in an average sort of way. She had light brown hair and eyes that might have been gray or blue. Her brow furrowed in a focused manner as she read about the Thirty Years’ War and the Peace of Westphalia. Her eyes flitted from word to word, up and down the pages. She turned the page, resting her elbow on the arm of the empty seat next to her.

  Haley was her name—Haley Monteforte.

  Haley lived in Arlington, a little city just south of Washington, in an apartment complex near the Pentagon, with a close friend from college. Four years ago they had graduated from their university, and had both moved to Washington, due to a shared interest in politics and the vibrancy of the city. It did not disappoint; Haley had rapidly worked up to a job as Legislative Director (this happened partly because of her own ambition and partly because the previous Legislative Director quit at an opportune time) for Senator Joseph McCraiben, a brilliant hotheaded Virginian man of Scotch-Irish descent with a particular distrust of the welfare system and any organization called by an acronym. Haley’s roommate, Elizabeth Tremont, had succeeded in becoming employed at Wane & Miller, a private and highly prestigious political research and advising firm with a long list of classified and high-profile clients. They both found their occupations very interesting—late nights sitting in on negotiations between politicians and committees, meetings with advocacy groups, research groups, policy groups, interest groups, debates and discussions on the merits and fallacies of any bill or proposal, glimpses of off-the-record handshakes and quid pro quo clandestine agreements.

  Haley and Elizabeth were as close as sisters, having met each other during the first week of freshman year in college and having walked through eight years of life supporting each other. They did not resemble each other much; Elizabeth, taller than most at five-foot eight, had long, golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and her face was longer and thinner, very open and kind looking, while Haley had softer features and darker hair that wisped around her face when it rained.

  Haley now sat reading on the metro, this twenty fifth day of April of the year two thousand and thirty three. She had transferred to the red line at the Metro Center stop and arrived at Union Station; there was the sign. Quickly she slid from her seat, and tucking her book in her purse, she exited the train, touching her MetroCard to the electronic scanner, and climbed the escalator from the metro up to the street. Only a few others were active at this time in the morning, other Senate staffers eager to get a head start on their piles of legislation, clutching travel mugs of coffee, crossing pavements while rubbing the sleep from their eyes and lost in their own worlds of music from the earbuds in their ears.

  The gray pre-dawn light had just begun to rise from the eastern end of the city, over the far end of the Capitol Building. The great dome, a mere quarter mile from the Senate staffer building, glowed pale in the fading starlight and early dawn. Haley slipped her badge onto the lapel of her blouse, and hitched her briefcase strap onto her shoulder. Outside, the crisp, cool air hung sweetly laced with the scents of new grass and of the elms, lindens, buckeyes and oaks, descendants of Frederick Law Olmsted’s landscaping in the 1870’s.

  Union Station was not far from the Senate buildings; she enjoyed this part of her commute immensely. She liked to walk, especially in the spring when the scents and sounds were so lovely. Fresh grass, young tulips. The soft chirping of baby sparrows. The whirring of the mother sparrow’s wings. The stars falling asleep one by one and the spreading of pinks and golds and blues across the cirrus clouds.

  Soon she arrived at the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Scanning herself into the entrance, she nodded to the security guard, a middle aged African American man dressed immaculately in Capitol Police uniform from head to toe, his gun at his hip, his eyes scanning the entrance and the security footage all at once.

  “Hello, Mr. Pilier. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Haley. Beautiful spring day, it’s supposed to be.”

  “That’s good to know! I’ll be sure to enjoy it later. Have a nice day.”

  Haley’s office was on the second floor. It adjoined the Chief of Staff’s office on one side and a conference room on the other. Thick navy blue carpet covered the floors, and a long window spanned part of the eastern facing wall from the ceiling to just above the floor. Tan curtains hung heavy from wooden rods and her oaken desk, clear save for a single stack of papers, sat in front of the window. She checked her watch--just past quarter of seven--and lay her briefcase on the desk.

  Coffee preceded any other item on the agenda, and a few doors down there was a kitchenette with a coffee maker and rich Guatemalan dark roast grounds. She made her way down the hall, shoes sinking soundlessly into the plush carpeting. Passing dark offices that would soon be busy, she entered the small kitchenette and measured her brew into the machine, preparing for the work ahead and humming softly.

  “Morning, Haley,” said a voice behind her. It was a familiar voice, gruff and deep, belonging to the Senator.

  Haley turned as the coffee began to brew. “Good morning, sir. You’re in early. How are you this morning?”

  Senator Joseph McCraiben was a tall man, towering above his peers at six foot four. He was about sixty-five and his leathery face was lined with wrinkles, especially around the corners of his eyes and in between his brows. His clear, ice blue eyes were deep set in his face, fiercely glaring with Jacksonian fire. He had thick reddish-brown hair with streaks of gray along the temples and was clean shaven, making him look younger than he was. His ears were larger than average, as were his hands, great knobby knuckles that reminded one of a rancher’s hands. Broad shouldered, he was not overweight, but gave the impression of heaviness from the stocky yet tall frame of his build. He wore a black suit and red tie, straightforward in cut and with no fine cufflinks or lapel decoration. He was a simple, honest man who spoke gruffly, but to those who truly knew him, he was a most trusted individual with an undefeated love for his family, his friends, and his people. He had served in the army from ages eighteen to thirty, before settling down, marrying, and having three children, who were now quite grown. There still hung about him a military air, a certain discipline and total intolerance of waste or laziness. He moved with quickness somehow simultaneously rigid and agile.

  “Feeling just fine as of now, seeing as I haven’t looked at the agenda for today yet. I heard rumors that I would be visited today by Ambassador Zepeda. I am a little less than thrilled at the prospect of having to express to him why his government should not be deploying their troops to the Columbian border. The escalation will be catastrophic. I have met many fine people from Venezuela. He is not one of them.” The Senator’s tongue was sharp, and before his morning coffee, decidedly so.

  “You’ve spoken with him before, then?”

  “Briefly,” replied the Senator. “Last year, when I was chair of the Foreign Affairs Co
mmittee. Remember, we voted to put sanctions on countries purchasing petroleum from Venezuela. Well, Zepeda comes into my office and tells me that I am single-handedly creating a scenario in which Venezuelan children are starving. He failed to mention that his government is the most corrupt in the world, and that this corruption - not my sanctions - is inflating the price of bread to 343%. When I gently reminded him that four individuals in the legislative body and the president of his country had been recently implicated in a financial and political scandal, and that perhaps mismanagement was the cause of the economic collapse, well, that went over like a lead balloon.”

  Smiling, Haley lifted the glass carafe that now contained a decent cupful of coffee and poured its contents into her mug.

  “I’ll be reviewing the markup materials for this afternoon, sir.”

  The Senator nodded, and took a mug from the cupboard on the wall. “Oh, and Haley,” he said, as she stepped towards the door, “Come by my office before you start your work. I’d like to talk to you about something before everyone gets here. Get a second pair of eyes on something.” He disappeared from the doorway; Haley stirred cream into her coffee and then followed him.

  She entered into his office and sat down across from him, resting her elbows on the wide wooden desk. Before him were the normal stack of files and papers, and on top lay an open folder full of papers. Philanthropic donation reports. The Senator had agreed to chair the recently-established Senate Oversight of Donation Reporting Committee, which was created after the philanthropic donation scandal two years prior that had incriminated seventeen legislators, three judges, and the director of the Office of Management and Budget. The one thing that the Senator appreciated less than stupidity was corruption.

  “Here,” he said suddenly, and pointed with a knobby finger to one line on the report. He turned the paper towards Haley. “Look at this. This is actually kind of serious. I think the White House Chief of Staff is doing something financially shady.”

  “Fifteen thousand donated by Snyder Reed to The Bluechrest Foundation.” She read the line, and shook her head. “I don’t see the issue. That’s not very much money. The Chief of Staff can donate his own funds. Were these not his own funds?”

  Snyder Reed was the President’s Chief of Staff, a man of about forty five years with deep blue eyes and black hair, practical intelligence and military experience.

  “No, they were his funds.”

  “I don’t--I don’t see the issue.”

  The Senator pulled out another paper and pointed again.

  “Fifteen thousand donated…” read Haley, as he held the paper out to her. “This is from last month. Regular giving is not unusual, though.”

  “Oh, well in this case it is very unusual, Haley.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t see why.”

  “The issue,” said the Senator, turning the paper back toward himself and leaning back in his chair, “the issue is that The Bluechrest Foundation doesn’t exist.”

  Haley frowned, skeptical, and googled it.

  “Look,” she said. “Here it is--The Bluecrest Foundation--a philanthropic foundation dedicated to improving education standards.”

  “That’s The Bluecrest Foundation.” The Senator smiled.

  “Yes, that’s what I said,” answered Haley, very confused.

  “Haley,” he said, closing the folder in front of him. “There is no ‘h’. Look again.”

  Bluecrest. Bluechrest. Haley frowned.

  “It must be a typo,” she said.

  “No,” said the Senator. “Snyder Reed is not a donor to The Bluecrest Foundation.”

  “How are you sure? Their donor list is confidential.”

  “I know that he is not a donor,” said the Senator, leaning forward again, “because I am one of the donors.”

  Haley stared, and frowned again, and clasped her hands around her mug, feeling the warmth in her fingers.

  “That’s how I noticed this,” said the Senator. “I thought at first, like you, that he was a donor to The Bluecrest Foundation, and I was surprised because I am personal friends with all of the donors there. I called to make sure. He is not on the list.”

  “What’s that money being used for?” she finally said, after a moment. “Why would he make recurring payments?”

  “I’d like you to take some time to look into this,” responded the Senator. “I don’t want this becoming a big media story and reflecting poorly on the administration. We don’t need another scandal when the public appreciation for government is already so low, especially within our party. Tell me what you find.” He handed her the folder.

  She stood up to leave.

  “Oh, and Haley! One more thing.”

  She paused.

  “Tonight, I’ve had you put on the list to attend the Honorary Gala for the Council of Economic Advisers. It’ll be the same as the one the President held during his first term. You can bring a date or a friend. I was supposed to go, but I have a pressing family matter. Please go and give my greetings to the President and the First Lady, and have a glass of champagne for me. Or scotch if you like. You won’t mind going, will you?”

  2. The Gala

  “And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

  ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

  Galas are always well attended in the nation’s capital. There is free alcohol, leading to a state of polite intoxication for most attendees, while the outliers soberly attempt to network and grasp at beneficial business relationships. They pretend they are deeply engaged in the welfare of Mrs. Smith’s cat, so long as Mrs. Smith (or Mrs. Smith’s superior) can add dollars or political credit to their organization or occupation. Mrs. Smith’s cat is about to die and is suffering from acute diabetes, and takes insulin shots twice a day, and would you hear it hiss when it gets those shots! And Mr. Jordan is exceedingly interested in how the insulin is administered, and to what dosage, and the exact procedure by which Mrs. Smith holds down her cat with a towel to restrain it from clawing at her while the insulin is administered. Then Mr. Jones joins the conversation, having heard that Mrs. Smith was present, and begs her to tell him again all the details previously mentioned. And so it goes, while the intoxicated grow more intoxicated, and Mrs. Smith’s cat becomes the talk of the party, and you, an innocent bystander, might be excessively confused with the level of public interest in feline matters, for after all, despite what cats themselves think, cats are not worth eternal attention.

  Haley and Elizabeth enjoyed these events for the most part, taking advantage of the free drinks and hors d'oeuvres while watching as adults played power games. Free entertainment. There were often prestigious political figures present, and Haley had been able to meet the president and his wife several times through the Senator, who was a member of the National Security Council and very active in several other committees. This evening, she would again be responsible for representing the Senator, and she found pride in having the honor of doing so.

  They arrived on time at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, passing through security and obtaining their guest badges. The evening sky silhouetted the tall building structure against a fading sunset of golds and pinks and blues. Haley was in floor length silver Dior (rented, because no one in Washington under thirty could afford to buy Dior, could barely even afford drinks past happy hour). The dress hung beautifully in a natural and elegant manner, shimmering softly in the evening light. Elizabeth also wore rented Dior, a gauzy black piece with no straps, ankle length to show her heels to best advantage. They walked up the steps and into the foyer, and were ushered into the events room.

  There was a low stage in the front, bordered with thick blue drapes. To the left of the stage a jazz band was playing softly, a melting tune that sounded like butter and honey and cinnamon. Round white tables were arranged around the room, and each table was set for eight with shining crystal and silver.

  A waiter in a penguin tuxed
o walked by, offering them two flutes of champagne, which they accepted.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” said Elizabeth, smiling.

  Haley raised her eyebrows appreciatively in agreement, taking a sip from the flute.

  “Oh look, there’s Carlos,” said Elizabeth. “I saw him today for a brief meeting. Let’s go say hello.”

  Carlos Melendez was a member of the Council of Economic Advisers, and a close friend of both Haley and Elizabeth. He had been with the Council for just over four years now, having been hired immediately after graduating with his Master’s in Applied Economics from George Washington University. Recently he had published a piece on China that had gained him popularity and the express approval of the President himself. Well done, said the President. Glad to have you on my team, and shook hands with Carlos and flashed a smile for the cameras.

  Carlos was an introverted person. He did not appreciate the intrusion of others into his office, his space, or his thoughts. He liked to close his door and submerge himself in the worlds of capital gains, arbitrage pricing theory, appreciation, consumer confidence, inflation, nominal value, gross national product, tariffs. He loved graphs. Pretty pictures, he called his graphs, pretty pictures that determined if dairy farmers would have a good season, or if China would impose trade barriers, or if blue collar unemployment would drop.

  When he spoke to people, he chose his words carefully, because waste, to Carlos, was the worst of all sins. And to avoid it, he painted his pretty pictures as if he were brushing strokes on the walls of the Sistine Chapel.

  Of Venezuelan descent, his parents had immigrated to Virginia in the exodus of 2024 following the collapse of President Guaido and the re-ascension of former president Nicolas Maduro. He had been naturalized a few years after, through an asylum application, and had lived and worked in northern Virginia since arriving. Having met Elizabeth at George Washington University in the master’s program, he had dated her for a few months before both of them decided that they found each other less annoying when they were friends than when they were in a relationship.