Midnight

time to make sure she felt comfortable in every meeting, every interaction, every assignment. The way he treated his family, his friends, his constituents, and more than that--people in general--it was different, it was rare, it was honorable. He had so many chances to take an underhanded jab at opponents, to play dirty politics, and he had refused every one. He never used people. Ever. He treated people with the utmost dignity and respect. He would never do this. Yes, if there was one man in Washington to trust, it would be him.
Haley took a deep breath.
“Too much to explain, but you have to trust me on this,” she said quickly and firmly.
         Elizabeth paused, and then nodded.
         Haley reached to her phone, powered it on, and dialed the Senator’s personal line.
         “Hello, sir.” Her voice was tight.
         Pause.
         “No, I’m not really alright. I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me and my friend in half an hour?”
         Pause.
         “Landon is with you? I suppose it’s your call, how much you trust him. It’s something really important. It could involve officials at the Pentagon. And I don’t think your house is safe for this discussion.”
         A longer pause.
         “As long as you would trust him with anything - I cannot emphasize how critically important this could be. This could put all of our lives in danger. If you trust him to that extent, then yes.”
         Pause.
“Yes, where you told me to deliver that folder to him?”
         Pause.
         “Good. We are on our way.”
         She hung up, and filled herself a glass of water and gulped it down. She moved away from the counter towards the door.
         Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.
         “Let’s go. Going to a little dive bar at a friend of his. There’s a small room in the back where we can speak safely,” said Haley.
         “James Landon is coming? And you’re sure it’s safe?”
         “He was with the Senator when I called, meeting about an unrelated issue,” responded Haley, reaching for the doorknob, “And no. No. Nothing is guaranteed to be safe.”
4. Three Years Prior
 
“Come this way, honored Odysseus, great glory of the Achaians, and stay your ship, so that you can listen here to our singing; for no one else has ever sailed past this place in his black ship until he has listened to the honey-sweet voice that issues from our lips; then goes on, well-pleased, knowing more than ever he did…”
------
Homer, the Odyssey
 
The Council of Economic Advisers is an agency within the executive office of the president. Established in the mid 1940’s, its purpose is to provide the president with sound guidance regarding economic policy. Its members, a sparse handful of geniuses from all over the country, are housed in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, commonly known as the ‘EEOB’. The EEOB, designed by Supervising Architect of the Treasury Alfred Mullet in the late 1800’s, is a flamboyant contrast to the other somber and regal Greco-Roman edifices in the city, with its elaborate granite, slate, and cast iron walls styled in the optimistic French Second Empire fashion. The massive building stretches magnificently to the immediate west of the White House, connected to the West Wing by a subterranean tunnel.
Three months into his job, Carlos had overcome the learning curve and was seated at his desk, researching the trade deficit between Ecuador and Nicaragua, when his door burst open and his coworker Peter Jenkins entered with tie askew and lapels crooked.
“Don’t you want to see the briefing?” said Peter, a loud, red-headed individual with a square face and bright blue eyes and an incredible quantity of freckles. “We’ve got ten minutes.”
“I don’t know,” said Carlos. “I have so much to do.”
“That’s ridiculous,” returned Peter. “Don’t you want to see our first major accomplishment announced on national television? Come on. Get up, and come with me!” Peter approached the desk with a jovial smile on his face. “You work, work, work. Take a breath, take a minute, and let’s go see history being made!”
Carlos leaned back, and smiled. Smiling or not, though, Carlos was an objectively attractive person. He had a clear, deep complexion and dark eyes, with a firm jaw and brow. He never spoke quickly, but always after a brief ponderance as if he were deliberating his words, deciding whether or not they were worth the time to speak.
“Alright,” he said after a pause. “I’ll come.”
“Hurry up,” said his friend, as Carlos stood and slipped on his blue suit jacket that had rested on the back of his chair.
Across the black and white checkered hallway, down the brass elevator, through the tunnel, and up into the West Wing they made their way, and were ushered into the hall that led to the press offices and the press briefing room.
Carlos entered the press briefing room first and stepped past the media White House Correspondents that sat waiting in their designated seats, chatting to each other, their hands clasped in their laps and their ankles crossed. They glanced up as he entered with Peter in tow; and turned back to their conversations. The cameras, with piles of wiring and cords, were set up in the rear of the room, trained on the podium and backdrop in the front. Carlos and Peter shuffled over the longer wires to the side of the room, facing the podium. Carlos saw that a few other members of the Council were seated in the back rows or standing in the back.
“I can’t believe this,” said Peter in a low tone. “So proud. We’ve got to all go out tonight in celebration. Shots on shots on shots.”
Carlos nodded, but with no intention of actually following up on the offer. Peter was the sort of person that found every occasion he could to go out and celebrate.
The Press Secretary, Milton Brando, entered the room, and immediately all eyes shifted as