Echo Protocol

Olivia adjusted her blazer as she stepped into the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, the air thick with quiet tension. The room was smaller than it appeared on television, the walls lined with history, the rows of seats filled with journalists who had spent years—decades, even—playing this game.

But Olivia wasn’t here for the usual dance of politics and journalism. She was here to watch. She slid into a seat near the middle, close enough to observe the President’s body language without drawing attention. Around her, reporters murmured to one another, exchanging notes, setting up their recorders. Some were veterans, others fresh faces chasing bylines. Olivia recognized a few, but none that would recognize her.

She kept her hands folded in her lap, calm, professional. But her pulse was steady and sharp. Then the room fell silent as the President walked in.

He moved smoothly, confidently, the way a man in power should. But as he approached the podium, Olivia saw it, the pause. Just for a second, like an actor searching for his mark.

This was not a mistake. It was a calculation.

The Press Secretary called on the first reporter. Questions about policy, foreign relations. The President answered effortlessly, his voice steady.

Then came a personal question. Something harmless. A journalist from the Washington Post asked about his favorite childhood memory.

The President smiled. “It would have to be summers at my grandfather’s lake house in Vermont.”

The words were perfect. The tone was perfect, but something was wrong. Olivia’s eyes narrowed. He hesitated before answering. A fraction of a second too long. And then, something stranger. She had heard that exact phrasing before.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through past interviews, archived footage. Found an old clip from two years ago.

“…summers at my grandfather’s lake house in Vermont.”

Olivia didn’t breathe. Her grip tightened. She hit play again, syncing the footage side by side. The President’s tone, cadence, and smile matched exactly, like a recording. A glitch in a performance she had seen too many times.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “He’s not answering. He’s replaying.”

* * *

Across town, Jessica and Leanna sat in a parked car near Dupont Circle, eyes locked on a black SUV idling a few spaces ahead.

Inside the SUV, Alan Kurtz was on the move.

Jessica took a slow sip of coffee, watching through the side mirror. “He’s careful.”

Leanna adjusted the small camera mounted to the dashboard. “Not careful enough.”

They had been following him for hours. No pattern. No obvious connections. But Kurtz wasn’t moving like a man in control. He was waiting. Watching.

Then, a man approached his SUV. He did not look around. He acted too casual to be natural. The handoff was quick, a flash of fingers and a brown envelope that disappeared like sleight of hand. No words. No eye contact. Kurtz took it, nodded once, and drove off.

Leanna tapped the wheel. “What do we think? Dead drop? Payment?”

Jessica’s jaw tightened. “Only one way to find out.”

She started the car and followed.

* * *

When Olivia returned to the Watergate, Jessica and Leanna were already waiting. A map of the city was spread across the table, notes scrawled in the margins.

Jessica looked up. “How’d it go?”

Olivia tossed her notebook onto the table. “I think we have a problem.”

She explained what she saw. The hesitation. The phrasing. The perfect repetition.

Leanna frowned. “You’re sure?”

Olivia pulled up the footage. Played the old clip. Played today’s briefing. Side by side. They were identical.

Jessica exhaled through her nose. “That’s not just media training.”

Leanna nodded. “That’s programming.”

Silence settled over the room.

Jessica ran a hand over her face. “Alright. We know something’s off. Now we figure out why.”

Olivia leaned forward. “Then we need to find out when he changed.”

Jessica met her gaze. “And we need to find out what’s in that package Kurtz just picked up.”

Leanna smirked. “Sounds like a busy night.”

Jessica stared at the map. Patterns were forming. Not just lies. Scripts. Controlled, rehearsed, repeated.

“We’re not chasing corruption,” she said quietly. “We’re chasing programming.”