Mistress Page 15

  I dial up Carney again. When he answers, I say, “One more thing, Mr. Carney. I’m going to ask you a question, and if you don’t give me a truthful answer, then we’re done. The article gets published. Ready for my question?”

  He stops and waits a moment before answering. “Ask your question,” he says.

  “Did you come alone, as I asked?”

  He looks around him. He doesn’t know if I’m here or not. I told him I’m not, but he can’t be sure.

  “No, I didn’t, Ben. I’m the second-ranking official at the Central Intelligence Agency and I’m meeting with someone who is wanted for two murders and who’s trying to extort me. There’s no way they’re going to let me meet with you without watching my back. But that’s all they’re doing, Ben. No one’s going to arrest you or try to hurt you.”

  Fair enough. He admitted it. He told the truth. It’s a start. There are no guarantees in life.

  “Turn around, Mr. Carney. You passed me a couple minutes ago.”

  “Oh—you’re here. Okay. Where are you?”

  “The World War II Memorial,” I say. “The tour group by the Atlantic arch. I’m the guy in the wheelchair.”

  Chapter 62

  When I stand up from my rented wheelchair, the others in my tour group let out audible gasps. “It’s a miracle!” I say. “I can walk!”

  I leave them behind and meet Craig Carney, looking resplendent in his dapper three-piece gray suit and crimson tie, the Nationals baseball cap and pennant now discarded. We agree to take a walk along the reflecting pool. He’s built up a little perspiration in the scorching heat, which gives me some comfort, because I’m sweating through my clothes right now.

  I try to keep my breathing even, but it’s hard. This is what I’ve been waiting for, but I have a sinking feeling I’m not going to come away a happy customer. And I don’t see a whole lot of other options for me out there.

  “I know everything there is to know about you, Ben,” says Carney. “I know about your childhood. I know about your father and mother. I know that that newspaper of yours is something you do out of love, not because you have trouble paying the bills. It’s your baby. And that’s why I know that, whatever else, you’d never print a story that you know isn’t true. You wouldn’t do that to your baby.”

  “Fear of death can do wonders to your integrity,” I note.

  “Oh, it doesn’t have to come to that.” He says it like I’m being overly dramatic. I hope he’s right about that. “Y’know, Ben, when my father was in the Senate, he used to have a saying. ‘Don’t get in front of a ball rolling down a hill.’ Pick your battles, in other words. If you can’t stop something, don’t waste your time trying.”

  “So he probably wouldn’t have been a big fan of, say, Martin Luther King or Susan B. Anthony.”

  Carney chuckles. “You’re equating yourself with a civil rights leader?”

  “I’m no hero,” I say. “Far from it. But we do have one thing in common. We’re both fighting our government. I just didn’t realize I was doing so until people started shooting at me and framing me for murder.”

  We approach the Lincoln Memorial. Gotta love Honest Abe, but I’m not a huge fan of the Greek temple look of this memorial. Still, it’s hard not to be awed. I’ve been here fifty times, and I get chills every time I look up at him.

  “The United States government doesn’t kill its citizens,” says Carney. “If someone’s been trying to kill you, it isn’t us.”

  Given that he’s wearing a wire, what else is he going to say?

  “I never had an affair with Diana Hotchkiss, Ben. If she told you otherwise, then it’s one, but not the only, lie she told you.”

  We turn left—south—around the pool.

  “Why didn’t you say so, Mr. Deputy Director? This whole thing’s been a misunderstanding. My bad. Sorry for your troubles.”

  Carney doesn’t even crack a smile. He’s not what you’d call a whimsical guy.

  “You’re anxious and confused. I don’t blame you. You’re looking at serious criminal charges. Your life could be over very soon. But you know what, Ben? What you don’t realize is how lucky you are.”

  “Lucky because I know about your affair with Diana.”

  He lets that comment pass. We bend around the pool again, this time heading east.

  “You know much about World War II, Ben?” he asks me.

  “Enough, I guess.” I saw Saving Private Ryan and that HBO series Tom Hanks did. Does that count?

  “You know the story about when the Nazis bombed the city of Coventry in England? A lot of people think Churchill knew that bombing raid was coming because British intelligence had intercepted and deciphered the Nazis’ coded radio messages. You know about that, Ben?”

  “I know that some people think Churchill knew the raid was coming, but he didn’t say anything because he was afraid the Nazis would figure out that the Brits had broken their code. So Churchill decided it was better to let one city get leveled to keep this advantage a secret. He let Coventry take a hit for the greater good of winning the war.”

  “Right. That’s right, Ben.”

  “And I know most people think that story’s bullshit.”

  “Maybe so,” he says. “Maybe not.” It occurs to me now that I’m talking to a top banana at the CIA, so he may actually know whether that story is fact or fiction. “But surely you see my point, Ben. Sometimes there’s a bigger picture. A greater good, as you said.”

  “Okay, so what does this have to do with Diana? Or me?”

  Carney stops and faces me. “It means there are things I’d love to tell you, if I could, that would explain everything to you. But for reasons of national security, I can’t.”

  “Then forgive me if I’m not tracking this,” I say. “How does this make me lucky?”

  He nods. “Because I want this over,” he answers. “So I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Chapter 63

  “You’ll walk away from all your criminal problems,” says Carney. “All criminal investigations are dropped. Diana’s death is ruled a suicide. Jonathan Liu’s death is a suicide. Any responsibility for that dead police detective? Wiped clean. This little blackmail stunt you’ve pulled on me—all is forgiven, Ben.” He wags a finger at me. “Now, you’re not going to find a better deal than that.”

  I try to maintain a poker face, an air of skepticism. But I can’t deny that I’ve been praying for something like this. A chance to get my life back. To move on. And for Anne Brennan, and Diana’s parents, to do the same. I have more than myself to consider.

  “And the people trying to kill me?” I ask.

  He stares at me for a long time. I swear I see a trace of a smile, but maybe it’s just an optical illusion. If you stare at a wall long enough, it appears to move.

  “As I said, Ben, the US government has nothing to do with that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But maybe we know who does. And maybe we can work something out so that problem goes away, too.”

  I can’t keep up this blank expression much longer. I’m not wired for it, as Carney is. So I start walking again, moving toward the Washington Monument along the south side of the reflecting pool. Sweat is dripping into my eyes and running along my cheek. Carney knows that I’m on unfamiliar ground here. I’m in way, way over my head.

  “And for all this—for immunity from prosecution and from machine-gun ambushes—I have to do what?” I ask.

  “Nothing, Ben. Literally nothing. No more questions. No more investigating. Just let the whole thing go. It’s the right thing to do in terms of national security, and you save your life in the process. Everyone wins.”

  Somehow I don’t feel like a winner right now. I’m unsure how to proceed. Every instinct I possess tells me to lap up this deal like a dog, to say yes immediately. This is what Anne wants. This is what George Hotchkiss wants. This is—

  This is what I want.

  “You’re going to say
yes,” Carney says.

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are, Ben. For several reasons. For one, you know if you print that bogus story about me, you’ll ruin the reputation of your newspaper. And I’ll sue, and I’ll win. Because we both know that Diana and I never had an affair.

  “And even if you keep up this investigation of yours—and let’s pretend you dig up something worth printing—all you’ll accomplish is making this country less safe by disclosing tactical advantages we’ve managed to put in place against our enemies. And that’s assuming you manage to stay out of jail and you’re not under prosecution for two murders. And all that assumes that you even manage to stay alive, which, from what I understand, is a very tenuous proposition.”

  We walk for a moment, and I try to decipher everything this guy is telling me. It sure would be nice to be recording this conversation so I could play it later.

  Which is why I’m glad I’m recording this conversation so I can play it later.

  “Is Diana alive?” I ask.

  Carney smiles. “That’s not our deal. Our deal is you don’t ask questions.”

  “Who killed Jonathan Liu?”

  “Why, you did, Ben.”

  “What is Operation Delano?”

  He sniffs a laugh. “Enough, Ben. I need your answer. Right here, right now. Do you spend the few remaining days you have left tilting at windmills, or do you get your life back as it was?”

  I break away from him to think for a moment. I let my eyes wander over the west end of the National Mall. The Lincoln Memorial was the location of Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Protests against the wars in Vietnam and Iraq, marches for women’s and workers’ rights—all of them have taken place on the Mall. Every memorial here pays tribute to courageous souls who battled evil forces, some visible and some invisible, to make this country and this world a better place.

  I’m no hero. I never have been. I’ve lived a safe and cautious life. Why should I change course now? Especially when Carney’s right—the only thing that pressing forward will do for me is land me in prison or get me killed.

  “I need an answer right now,” says the deputy director. “Come on, Ben. You know there’s only one answer.”

  “You can wait twenty-four hours,” I say. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

  Chapter 64

  The air tonight is mild, as if Mother Nature has given us a brief respite from the stifling heat for this occasion. Idaho Avenue has been closed to traffic from Macomb Street to Newark Street. The sun has set, and the darkness is broken by the light of hundreds of candles held by officers in full dress uniform, civilians, and even children—people who have gathered for the memorial honoring Detective Ellis Montgomery Burk.

  There will be a private funeral service later this week. Those were the wishes of Ellis’s widow, Delores, and his daughters, Jody and Shannon. Tonight is the public memorial.

  A podium has been set up just outside the police headquarters. A minister has spoken. The Second District commander has spoken. A church choir delivers a touching rendition of “Amazing Grace.”

  And then it goes quiet, and we hear the voice of Delores Burk.

  “Ellis loved this job,” she begins. “He loved everything about it. He loved solving problems. He loved helping people. But most of all, he loved all of you. He considered you part of his family, every one of you. He would be glad to see all of you tonight. As am I.

  “My husband had a simple saying: ‘Have the strength to do it right.’ That was just like Ellis, if you knew him. He always broke it down to simple terms. ‘Do it right.’ There’s right and there’s wrong in this world, and Ellis always knew where that line was drawn. He never crossed it. He thought that was his duty as a member of the Metropolitan Police Department. He thought that was his duty as a father and husband. He thought that was his duty as a man.”

  I’m standing on the other side of the barricade. It’s not a good idea for me to cut into that crowd. Not because I might be recognized and arrested—though that would be a distinct possibility—but because I might be a distraction on this occasion. And Ellis deserves this memorial.

  I’m to blame for this man’s death. I reached out for him when I had no other options. And he helped me even though the case was beyond his jurisdiction. He helped me because he thought it was the right thing to do.

  Delores Burk is correct. There is such a thing as right and wrong. There is black and white. Washington, DC, is a town that lives in the middle gray. But that doesn’t mean I have to.

  I owe this to Ellis. I brought him into this fight, and I have to make sure I see it through. If he died in an ultimately noble cause, then his family should know it. If he died as a result of an evil cover-up, they should know that, too.

  When the memorial is over, I steer the Triumph onto 39th Street and then head south on Massachusetts Avenue. It will be another long night, another hotel. For a little while there, I really thought my days of running were over.

  “Mr. Carney,” I say into my cell phone. “I’m not making a deal with you. I’m going to find out what’s going on or die trying. So buckle up, Craig. It’s going to be a wild ride.”

  Chapter 65

  I need to kill some time before my next stop, so I find a bar on 15th Street and nurse a beer and watch CNN on the screen above the bartender. The sound is muted, but the closed-captioning is telling me that the Russians have detained a person they’re calling a spy from the neighboring republic of Georgia and are lodging an official protest. The Russians and Georgians had an armed conflict back in 2008, and the fear, apparently, is that fires are rekindling.

  I generally favor peace over war as a rule, but if another armed conflict broke out over there, maybe the Russians would call back the guys who are chasing me with machine guns. A guy can dream.

  At midnight, I make the short walk to the intersection of 15th Street and Caroline Street. Anne Brennan lives on the ground floor of the three-story brick condo building there, and the lights are on, so I assume she’s awake.

  I take a good look around first. I don’t think anyone’s tracking me right now, but they might be watching Anne, hoping to find me. I could be walking into a spiderweb.

  But I have no way of knowing. I don’t see anyone in the parked cars along 15th Street, and the people strolling along the streets seem to be moving on to other destinations. None of them are wearing signs that say SURVEILLANCE or BAD GUYS, so I have that going for me, but the truth is, if someone is watching Anne Brennan’s house right now, I have no way of knowing about it. And I have to talk to Anne in person. So I have to take the risk.

  But I don’t have to be stupid about it. I head back down Caroline Street, away from Anne’s place, and do a wide circle until I’m the next street over and walking through an alley up to the rear of Anne’s building. The whole thing is a twenty-minute exercise, but it’s worth the peace of mind.

  Though Anne lives on the ground floor, there’s a ten-foot fence bordering the back of the property, which I could probably climb if I really wanted to. But I don’t really want to. So I dial her number on one of the many prepaid phones I have.

  “I’m in the alley behind your place,” I say. “Can I come in for a minute? Don’t turn on any lights near the back of the house that aren’t already on. Don’t draw attention.”

  Not five minutes later, she opens the back door and hustles back to the gate to let me in. She seems more nervous than I am. But she looks a lot cuter. She’s wearing a pair of sandals and an oversize button-down pajama top that reaches her knees.

  Coming in from the rear of her condo, I see her bedroom for the first time and my heart does a little skip. Her kitchen is small but spotless and orderly. She leads me into the living room, where the intruders attacked her the other night.

  She sits on a folded leg on the couch and looks at me with those wide chocolate eyes. Wearing that tent of a pajama top, she looks like a teenager rather than someone in her early thirties. She
also looks to be a nervous wreck, for which I can hardly blame her.

  “I’ll be brief,” I say. I take her hand, which she willingly permits. “Anne, I want you to leave town. I want you to take a vacation. The airfare and hotel are on me. I can afford it, so don’t argue.”

  “Why do you want—”

  “Because I’m not going to let this go, and I don’t want anything to happen to you. I still don’t really know what’s going on, but I know it’s something very big and explosive. I can’t protect you, Anne.”

  She thinks for a moment, then places her free hand over mine. “And who’s protecting you?” she asks.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say with a confidence I absolutely do not possess. “A reporter has some tools at his disposal.”

  She almost smiles as she looks me over, appraising me. “That’s not very convincing, Ben. You’re not safe, are you?”

  “I’m not safe if I sit still, either. I don’t have a choice. You do, Anne. You’re not involved in this. Your only crime is being Diana’s friend.”

  She looks down at our joined hands. I wonder what it means to her. I wonder what it means to me. I catch a scent of lavender and feel myself, against all good judgment, drawing closer to her on the couch.