A week from now, Christine McCarthy is sitting in a darkened room with a fireplace just far enough to feel wisps of heat. An aide comes near, leaning over and, after hesitating a moment, whispers something in her ear. She waves her hand dismissively, reaches over to her Old Fashioned, and takes a drink, staring at the fire for a moment.
She picks up her phone, taps Bob C., which she does instinctively so many times in the day, and waits until he answers, which he does almost immediately each and every time.
“Deploy the AP Contingency,” she says.
She hangs up, putting the phone face down. She stares at it a moment before hurling her half empty cup at the fireplace.