The End Game by Raymond Khoury Page B

slights or diplomatic faux pas would ensue. Tonight’s event, though, was no six hundred-guest whirlwind tour of the White House’s various reception rooms. This was a more intimate seated dinner in the State Dining Room—intimate, as in eighty people seated at eight tables of ten. Not as easy to get lost in the crowd or hide the embarrassing, empty seat at the table.
    “Yes, where is he?” the First Lady asked.
    Tess just smiled uncomfortably, and all she could think of saying was simply, “I honestly couldn’t tell you,” with an embarrassed, half-laugh.
    I’m making excuses for Sean with the president! She shuddered inwardly.
    “I was so looking forward to meeting him,” Megan Yorke said. “Hank’s told me so much about him, and we owe him so much, of course. I haven’t had the chance to thank him.” She turned to her husband. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me what really happened that night or that you’d met with him until after Agent Reilly was back home in New York. I mean, I was there, too, wasn’t I?”
    Yorke gave her a practiced smile and nodded, expertly hiding any reaction to her gripe. “Sweetheart, we needed to make sure the threat was fully contained. I didn’t want you worrying unnecessarily.”
    They both owed their lives to Reilly. No one could argue that. As Tess flicked a quick glance around the room, she wondered how many of the people around her had been there that night earlier this year, at the White House Correspondents Dinner at the Hilton hotel in Washington, the night a rogue Russian agent came close to causing a historic bloodbath. Yorke and his wife, along with most of their senior staffers and a star-studded list of guests, were saved from a horrific death, which was why Reilly had been invited to this dinner. Tess had debated not coming at all if he didn’t show up, but she’d decided one of them showing up was marginally less rude than both.
    “You know how it is,” Tess said, forcing a smile to crack her tensely locked facial muscles. “He’s probably out there chasing down some psycho while we’re sitting here enjoying this very lovely Merlot.”
    “I don’t know how you can take it in your stride like that,” the First Lady said. “It’s so admirable of you, not even knowing where he is half the time, I imagine. At least when Hank here was still at the Agency, I gave up making any kind of social plans knowing how many times he’d stood me up, but at least I knew where he was and I knew he wasn’t in danger since he was a desk jockey,” she added with a small laugh and a sideways, playful glance at her husband. “Your life must be—well, I don’t envy you. It can’t be easy.”
    The president, whose route to politics and the White House had begun in intelligence, where he ultimately ended up running the CIA, nodded calmly in agreement. “I’m sure whatever it is he’s doing, we’re probably lucky he’s doing it.” His expression turned a bit more serious and he seemed to be studying Tess more closely. “You know, a lot of people aren’t thrilled with his way of handling things—I’ve had more than a few calls about him—but I just tell them to back off. If anything, we need more guys like him. So whatever reason he can’t be here is fine with me. And at least, we got to meet you.”
    She and Reilly had been placed at a table by the gingerbread White House, which she was told was something they crafted every year. It wasn’t long before the hosts and their guests were all seated and enjoying a first course of chanterelle mushroom soup with goat cheese fritters, Reilly’s empty seat staring at her from across the table. By the end of the meal, she felt like a wreck. Three times, she’d suffered the chastising eyes of the table companions who’d noticed her sneaking a glance at her phone under the table, but her screen was clear of any notifications. Reilly hadn’t called or messaged her.
    A profound sense of worry was