The young CIA analyst waited anxiously for Fiona Hill to pick up her phone. He had dialed her, he recalled, because he wanted to hear a familiar voice and make sure he wasn't doing something "colossally stupid."
Five years later Hill's memories of the call are still vivid: the CIA analyst's voice, which sounded uncharacteristically emotional; the annoying clatter of the Frappuccino machine inside the Starbucks where she was waiting for her morning coffee.
