Midnight

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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