Washington, DC – October 2014
"Agent Juliet Humphrey was murdered three hours ago," Conrad Dalton's presence fills the Oval Office. There may be several people in the room. But in this moment Henry can tell why he was elected. There is an aura of sophisticated calm power that rolls off the man. Henry wishes more than anything, he wasn't intimidated by it. But he is. This man has the power to destroy him in all the ways that will make him wish he was dead. And the worst part is, it's not like Henry has a way to fight back. No, he has to count on Elizabeth to do the fighting when she's already had to do so much.
"Henry, it's imperative that we bring Juliet's murderer to justice," Conrad continues. Henry finds himself nodding, agreeing. He knew Juliet for what felt like another lifetime. It was another lifetime. The lifetime with Elizabeth's Friday night spy dinners, a tradition started while he was in the Marines to cure her loneliness and continued until she was gone.
"Henry, do you know where Elizabeth is?" Conrad's voice is almost soft as if he's building a rapport or leaning into a deal. Henry has seen him do it before, and the man is damn good at it. He has to give him credit for his salesmanship. He sells sympathy as if he can feel it. Henry is not a psychiatrist, but he can only assume that Dalton falls somewhere on the scale of sociopathy.
Henry tries to calculate how much to give the man. Jessica's hand on his thigh—her thumb rubbing as if to reassure—reminds him that Conrad knows Henry has seen Elizabeth. Lying about that is most likely not the move. But should he lean into the lies of her treasonous behavior? He doesn't know. His eyes leave the president to glance down at his wife's hand. He wants to remove her as if Jessica were a simple stain on his jeans. She isn't, and his heart almost craves her comfort. And her comfort makes him nauseous. What a horrific catch-22, the need to be near her and away from her all at once.
"I don't, Mr. President," He says as he tears his gaze away from the hand on his thigh. And that's an easy sentence because it's the truth. He does not know her current location. He had enough experience with the NSA to know to rely on the truth whenever possible.
"But you know she's alive? Did you see her in Los Angeles?" Conrad continues with his soft, fatherly tone, which is semi-weird, as Henry's actual father is seated next to him. He wonders how he ever looked up to and respected Conrad Dalton. And he wonders why he didn't respect his father more.
"Yes, and yes," Henry gives him more truths, yet no details. No, Conrad can try to dig for those.
"Why didn't you inform me?" Conrad's voice is stern.
"I didn't know I had to, sir," He says. He feels Jessica's thumb stills its circles. He's unsure of the signal she's trying to send—if she's trying to send one.
"That's fair," Conrad smiles, a smile that reeks of duplicity, "Henry, we have forensic evidence that proves Elizabeth is responsible for Juliet's death."
Henry nods. He's not surprised. He figured there would be fabricated evidence. Conrad has a long-standing history of fabricating evidence against Elizabeth at this point.
"I'm not sure what you want from me, Mr. President," Henry tries to shift the conversation to the ultimatum portion. He's sure there is to be one. The less time he has in the Oval with the President, the less chance he has of slipping up.
"I want your help," Conrad leans back in his seat.
"Help with what?"
"I need your help bringing Elizabeth in. Juliet deserves justice. So does George Peters."
Henry swallows. He feels dread so powerful fill his body, starting in his toes and rising, threatening to strangle him. For the first time since he found out she was alive, he wishes he hadn't. He wishes he hadn't known any of what he knows now. Conrad Dalton wants Elizabeth dead. He wants her dead and Henry has no faith that she can win. He's going to have to grieve her all over again. His kids are going to have to grieve her all over again. And her name will be dragged through the mud with fabricated evidence of treason and murder. He can't prevent it. And he can't fight it.
"Mr. President, I..." Henry doesn't know how to finish. He doesn't know how to process the fact that the President of the United States just asked him to help kill the love of his life, "Conrad, how could you do this to her?" his words are whispered as he grasps for some confessed closure from the sociopath behind the resolute desk.
"I did nothing," Conrad's voice is hard. Henry is no longer a pawn; he is a threat. The shift in the President's feelings is clear. Henry will be annihilated if he has to be. But yet, Henry can't help but be righteous. He knows in his bones, deep in his soul, that Elizabeth was not lying to him. He cannot explain it, but he doesn't need to. He'll keep this belief on faith and faith alone.
"You've done everything." Henry is calm in anger. Calm in his righteousness as he baits the President. He's angry, so angry that he has surpassed the want to scream and hit. No, he's beyond that. He has found a place of calm, "You took her from me. You took her from her life," He says.
"Henry, I'm not sure what she told you. I'm sure it wasn't flattering. But I assure you she was lying. She's a liar." Conrad remains calm as he's still positive he holds the upper hand, "She's a liar. And a junkie. She got in too deep with an opium poppy supplier and sold state secrets to the highest bidder,"
Henry catches it—the new and improved story. Conrad is closing all the gaps in the original file that had set her up. He's giving her motive. He's giving her reason. He wants to bury her once and for all. He needs her to not only be dead but become so uncreditable that no one will ever question his motives in that killing. He's making her into an enemy of the state.
"Henry, I'm going to give a very simple order: you are to help us lure Elizabeth to DC. Where she will be promptly arrested and detained as an enemy combatant and, therefore, have her constitutional rights revoked. She will then undergo interrogation until we have all the info we need. Once we have that, she will be executed."
Henry opens his mouth to protest, but Conrad is faster.
"You don't have a choice. Andrew Munsey has assigned four agents to escort you and your family to The Watergate Hotel. Those agents have orders to ensure you do your part using any means necessary. And I'm sure you would prefer no harm comes to your children."
"You can't," Henry's voice is quiet and broken, "They are innocent. Please,"
"You should have thought about that before you followed her to LA," Conrad says, standing as if to signal the end of the conversation. Henry stands as well, his fist tightly clenched and his jaw set. "Your kids will be fine, Henry, as long as you help us. I promise you," Conrad gives him a sympathetic look, but the words are an empty promise.
Henry steps forward, his arm pulling back.
"Son!" Patrick's voice breaks through the immediate rage, and Henry releases his breath, "Henry, we'll go,"
Henry turns to his father, whose eyes are watery, and face is sad. The old union leader is defeated and desperate. He does not want his family involved in this any more than Henry does. He knows there is no other way to win the game other than to play it. He needs his son to remain calm and not act on pure emotion. Henry gives him a slight nod.
A smug smile adorns Dalton's face, knowing that Henry will do exactly as he's told and that he has the older McCord patriarch's support. "Thank you," he tells them both, "And I'm sorry about all of this," he says, his tone dripping with condescension. But the dismissal is clear. It's Jessica who leads them out of the Oval and into the outer office where indeed, the Director of the CIA has four other agents waiting. Henry is not surprised to find Munsey is part of the plot.
"Gentlemen," Munsey nods to the two McCord men, "Follow Agent Smith here. He'll take you and your family to the hotel. Please enjoy your stay in DC. Allow the kids to watch pay-per-view and order room service. This is a typical family vacation. Do I make myself clear, Henry?"
"She used to have you in our home," Henry says quietly, alluding to the spy dinners. He needs Elizabeth's old friend to know what he's doing is wrong.
"Typical family vacation," Munsey reiterates.
"Understood," Patrick answers for his son. Henry's jaw clenches once again. They walk down the corridors once again, waiting to be reunited with the kids.
"Don't fight this, son," Patrick says, his hand resting on Henry's forearm, "You can't help her if you make an enemy of yourself," he whispers to his son.
Parkersburg, WV – October 2014
The breakdown of the room starts the second they enter. The women work in perfect sync, checking every single square inch for anything that shouldn't be there as if someone could be five steps ahead of the random hotel they picked off of the random route they picked. As if someone knew they could be here in this exact Holiday Inn room.
When Isabelle is sure that no one is listening, she turns her attention to Bess, who is pacing and picking at the dried blood in the cracks of her left index fingernail. Her eyes are nearly glazed over, and her body seems to be running on autopilot.
"Bess," Isabelle walks in front of her, "We need to call the congressman."
"Right," Elizabeth sighs. There is a sad edge to her voice. She doesn't know how to pull herself back together. Not when she can feel herself covered in blood, both new and old. Not when she knows the fight ahead of her. The battle is raging within her, and she isn't sure that she has the strength. But she pulls her backpack up to the desk and rummages through the hidden pocket in the lining for the encrypted flash drive.
She sits down and stares at the laptop. Isabelle doesn't push her. She is standing behind her. She is waiting for her. She's trying to balance the need for expediency and being sensitive to her friend's plight. She had known when she read the file that Elizabeth had been through a lot, but the longer this goes on, the longer she watches Elizabeth decompensate, the more she begins to understand just what that means. She's always been so strong, so self-assured. But she's breaking, and Isabelle doesn't know how to put her back together.
"Bess, remind me why you came here to take this on," Isabelle asks her softly.
"My kids," She says, still staring at the Google result for the phone number to the Congressional Office of Michael Hirst from the Second Congressional District of Alabama.
"Right, your kids. And Henry, too, right?" Isabelle presses, hoping she's doing the right thing to pull Elizabeth back to the task at hand.
"Yes," Elizabeth nods. She thinks about the photo Henry had shown her in her apartment—her babies had grown ten years past the last time she saw them. Her mind is racing with what the last ten years have looked like for them. What the last day has looked like for them.
"Right. So, you need to call the congressman because he can help. I know this is hard, but we're deep in it now. Let's keep taking steps that get us closer to getting you back to your kids," Isabelle reminds her.
Elizabeth nods and dials the number. She hovers over the call button for a few moments. She takes one more breath to try and center herself and hits it.
"Congressman Hirst's Office, how can I help you today?" A much too cheerful staffer answers the call as she expected.
"I know this is a tad breach in the protocol, but I need you to direct me to the congressman's chief of staff immediately." Elizabeth is surprised at the authority in her voice. She is falling into her old shoes, and her old shoes have always been comfortable, but the fit is off now, and the edges are chafing, but it is better than falling apart.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Listen, kid, I know your job is to answer the phones and log the constituent's comments and complaints and other bullshit. But this is bigger than that and bigger than you, so I need to speak with the congressman or his chief of staff right fucking now." She doesn't filter her tone. She knows the staffer isn't allowed to hang up on her, and she will stay on this line until she gets what she needs.
"Hold, please," Elizabeth is put on hold with some annoying Muzak version of a song that was popular before her deployment and abduction. She holds her tongue, not wanting to risk the chance of her voiceprint being in the database, which is possible, and they may be searching. She doesn't hold it past Conrad to have the Fort Meade supercomputers trying to pinpoint her every move.
"Jay Whitman, Chief of Staff to Congressman Hirst,"
"I have to be honest; I was expecting an assistant, Mr. Whitman," Elizabeth deadpans
"When someone makes one of my nineteen-year-old interns teary-eyed, I answer the call myself," Whitman's tone indicates his righteous disapproval.
"I do sincerely apologize for that. However, I need an immediate audience with your boss,"
"Ma'am, the congressman is—"
"Busy. Yes, I'm sure he is, but trust me, he's not too busy to hear what I have to say."
"Ma'am, if you can give me a message to pass along, I promise I will have the congressman call you back personally,"
"I'll be dead before the congressman even finds a free minute in his schedule. And while I'm sure your constituent's concerns are all very important, mine are far more pressing. Walk to wherever the congressman is and say exactly this: Killer in on the line, and that I'm calling in the favor," Elizabeth's voice is harsh and commanding. As if she has a right to order this man around, but something tells her that whatever desperation or authority she has in her voice will make the man comply. If not, because she seems desperate because he's curious.
There's a pause. Whitman is trying to process. Elizabeth isn't sure if she's blown it or if her hunch was right.
"Give me a minute."
"Take all the time you need," Elizabeth doesn't want to push, not after the tone she had used, not when she's getting what she wants.
"Tell me what you need, killer, and you got it," Mike's voice fills her ear exactly seventy-four seconds after Whitman put her on mute.
"Wish it was something easy, Mike," she starts. She knows her ask is huge. Take on the President. It may be Congress's purview, but Conrad is popular and convincing. And she is a woman with a crazy story that she'll need to convince people to believe.
"How much trouble are you in?" He asks, his tone more serious, and she knows that he can already guess how much trouble.
"You could say I've done something that might upset the status quo," Elizabeth admits, trying to keep things vague.
"Should we be talking over the phone?"
"Probably not,"
"Tell me where to meet you," he says after a slight pause. She nearly sighed in relief; she had been unsure until this moment that she had misremembered his promise on the ride to the medical tent in Bagdad. I never should've okayed you going alone. I'm sorry. I'll find a way to make it up to you.
"Give me a number to text," She says, not liking she's still on a US government-owned line. Mike rattles off a number, and the call is over. She carefully encodes and then encrypts the text, double-checking to make sure she hasn't missed any characters. The reply is swift.
ETA 6 hours. Bringing Whitman. Has to look like a legit meeting for the official schedule.
She sends the confirmation, then looks up at Isabelle, "He'll be here in six hours,"
"Okay, so... we wait. You hungry?" Isabelle asks, walking over to the menu hanging on the wall and perusing their options.
"Not really," Elizabeth says, "But I should eat and finally scrub my hands clean,"
