Mistress Page 25

  “Hi, Ham,” I say. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, your agents acted professionally and decisively.”

  “That’s no consolation. You’re in a lot of trouble, son.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, Ham.”

  I wish I had a cool nickname like Ham. The only thing that came from Ben was Benji, like that annoying dog. I could handle T-Bone, which is what George Costanza wanted. But not Koko, which is what he got instead.

  “You mind telling me what the hell you were shouting about in there?” he asks.

  Actually, I do mind. Ham’s a good egg—mental note, possible future pun—and there’s no need to draw him into this mess.

  “Ham, how long have we known each other?”

  He cocks his head. “Maybe four years?”

  “You ever know me to be crazy? Off my rocker?”

  On second thought, I’m not sure I want to hear his answer.

  “What’s your point?” he asks.

  “My point is I had a good reason for doing what I did. I want to talk to the president, Ham.”

  “No,” he snaps. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Well, then it will work this way. You give the president this message for me. I only said ‘blackmail’ in there. I didn’t say what the blackmail was. I could have, but I didn’t. So you tell the president, unless he wants me to talk to the press the first chance I get and reveal what the blackmail was, he and I need to have a chat.”

  Hamilton shakes his head. “Ben—”

  “That’s it, Ham. Give him that message. It will be off the record, if that helps. But I’ll only talk to the president or to the reporters, the first chance I get.”

  I get out of my chair and walk to the corner of the room, turning my back to him. After a moment, Ham gets out of his chair and leaves the room.

  Another hour passes. In some ways it’s agonizing, the slow crawl of time in this barren room, but considering what I’ve been dealing with over the last ten days, this is like a stroll along the beach. I don’t have to make any more decisions.

  The door opens again. I turn.

  It’s CIA deputy director Craig Carney. And he doesn’t look happy. But he doesn’t really look angry so much, either.

  Scared is a better word.

  He approaches me, getting so close to me that he could almost kiss me. Like Judge Reinhold, the close talker in that Seinfeld episode.

  “There’s still a chance to salvage this,” he says to me. “I’m going to give you that chance. You’ve been under a lot of strain. You’re wanted for murder. People close to you have died. You’re under considerable stress. Everyone would understand that. You’re sorry for your irresponsible comments, and you need to check into a rehab institute for some much-needed rest and therapy. You will disavow what you’ve said.”

  “No,” I say.

  “And if you don’t, I’ll destroy you. I’ll put this entire thing on you, Casper. We’ll charge you with treason and ship you to Guantanamo Bay. I’ll put you in a cell with some towelhead whose life’s ambition will be to castrate you. And that’s to say nothing of the local charges for murder. You’ll spend a decade in agony. You’ll be begging for that day to come when we strap you to a gurney and stick a needle in your arm.”

  I look away from him and try to block out what he’s saying, but even with my brain’s considerable ability to wander to bizarre and irrelevant places, it isn’t easy. This is essentially what he’s threatened all along.

  “Oh, and that’s just the start,” Carney continues, speaking so quietly he’s almost whispering. “I’ll destroy everything and everyone you care about. Ashley Brook Clark? Dead. Diana’s friend Anne Brennan? Dead. I’ll do it. I have resources you couldn’t dream about. It’s your choice. Turn this car around right now. Right here.”

  His eyes are boring through me. His cheeks are red with passion.

  I clear my throat. “Since you put it that way,” I say.

  “So we’re agreed?”

  A noise at the door. The knob turning. Craig Carney’s eyes search mine.

  And behind him, in walks the president of the United States.

  Chapter 108

  “Mr. President,” says Craig Carney. “Sir, I think we have this all cleared up.”

  The president, dressed in a suit and tie, his eyes squinting, focuses on me. “Hello, Ben,” he says.

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  The president looks around the room, unimpressed. “Apparently, you wanted my attention. And now you have it.”

  “Mr. President,” says Carney. “I think Ben here will tell you that he’s been under a lot of strain, and he’s made some statements that he regrets. He’s willing to publicly disavow those statements.”

  President Francis looks at me for confirmation.

  “That depends,” I say.

  “Mr. President, I have this under control,” says Carney. “You don’t have to listen to any of this, sir. I’ll take care of this.”

  And then it comes to me, like the parting of the seas—no, wait, that was Moses, that wasn’t really a revelation so much as a miracle from God—let’s try this again.

  And then it comes to me, like a shot of sunshine piercing a dark cloud—that works—a glimmer of hope for me. I hadn’t really given this thought serious consideration. It might have been floating around the recesses of my brain, but it never got my full attention. How stupid I’ve been. How utterly naive I’ve been this whole time.

  “Your wife,” I say to the president.

  “That’s enough!” Carney shouts at me. “Mr. President, really—”

  “What about my wife?” says the president, approaching me, fire in his eyes.

  Carney raises his hands as though he were a referee separating boxers. “This man is a traitor and a murderer, Mr. President. I promise you I have this under—”

  “What about my wife?” the president repeats.

  “Mr. President—”

  “Goddamn it, Craig, that’s enough. I want to hear what this man has to say.”

  Carney goes silent, but he turns to me. His face is a shiny crimson and his eyes are trying to tell me something. They’re telling me to keep my mouth shut.

  “Your wife was having an affair with Diana Hotchkiss,” I blurt out. “Diana made a video of a sexual encounter with the First Lady and sold it to the Russians. They’re hanging it over your head so you’ll stand down while they invade Georgia and then every other former satellite, country by country, until they’ve rebuilt their Soviet empire.”

  The president’s mouth opens and he steps back. His skin has gone pale, his eyes vacant.

  That was my glimmer of hope. I can’t believe it never occurred to me before now.

  The president didn’t know about any of this. He didn’t know about the video. He didn’t know the Russians were blackmailing the United States government.

  “Craig,” he says. “What is he talking about?”

  “Nothing,” says Carney. “This is preposterous.”

  “If it’s preposterous,” I say, “then why did Carney lie to you about Diana Hotchkiss being dead? She’s alive, Mr. President. You eulogized her at the White House press briefing. I was there. But she’s not dead.”

  “Diana?” The president looks at me, then at his CIA deputy director, his old, faithful friend. “Diana is…alive?”

  “This is ridiculous, Mr. President,” says Carney.

  “I’ll bet Carney was the one who told you she was dead,” I say to the president. “I’ll bet he was the one who asked you to mention her at the press conference. He wanted the Russians to think they had succeeded in killing her.”

  The president’s eyes glaze over. He’s thinking back to that day. And he’s remembering it exactly as I’m saying. I can feel it.

  “Mr. President, I can prove this. I have date-stamped photos of Diana from last night, handcuffed inside a government car. Even better, you can order a DNA test on the body in the morgue. That w
oman isn’t Diana Hotchkiss. It’s Nina Jacobs, of Downers Grove, Illinois. A DNA test will prove it. And I have e-mails that show that Diana set up this poor woman to be at her house at the time she was pushed off the balcony.”

  “This man is a killer and a traitor, sir,” Carney says. “There’s no reason for you to listen to any of this. This man was trying to blackmail us. Now he’s trying to turn it around—”

  “Is it true, Craig?” asks the president. “Is Diana still alive?”

  “Mr. President—”

  “Is. She. Alive?” The president’s face is changing colors.

  Carney struggles to find words. But has no answer. He silently bows his head.

  “It’s a…complicated situation,” he finally says.

  “Christ almighty,” the president whispers. He runs a hand over his face. “Christ almighty. What have you done, Craig?”

  “And I’ll bet it’s Craig Carney who’s been pushing you to lay low on the Russia-Georgia dispute,” I say quickly, not wanting to lose my momentum. “He’s cut a deal with the Russians behind your back, Mr. President. They think they’re blackmailing you, Mr. President, and you don’t even know it.”

  “Mr. President,” Carney pleads.

  “Mr. Carney,” says the president, his jaw clenched. “I want you to walk out of this room right now, stand out in the hallway, and talk to no one until I come out. Is that clear?”

  For such a bright guy, the deputy director seems to have trouble following what I thought was a very clear command.

  “Leave us,” says the president. “I want to hear what Ben has to say.”

  Chapter 109

  “The Russians approached Carney because he was the perfect choice,” I say. “He was CIA and he was one of your best friends. He was the perfect person to covertly deliver the message to you. But Carney didn’t deliver that message. He kept it to himself and some small team of thugs over at the CIA, who probably didn’t even know the details. He didn’t tell you, Mr. President, because he knew that no matter how embarrassing that video would be, no matter how politically damaging, you would never sell out your country.”

  The president, customarily a commanding presence in any room, the hunter-gatherer sort, has wilted. He is ashen and uncertain, his hand against a wall. This is a lot for him. He’s considering the damage to his administration and his reelection campaign. He’s thinking of his wife. And he’s thinking that he has been betrayed by one of his closest and most trusted friends. What I don’t know is the order in which he’s prioritizing these things.

  “Carney knew the video, if it ever got out, would ruin you politically, sir. Which would ruin him politically. He wants to be CIA director. So he made the decision all by himself.”

  The president pinches the bridge of his nose, seemingly addressing a massive headache. “The explosion near the White House the other day?” he asks.

  “That was the Russians, chasing me,” I say. “They were trying to kill me before I could find a copy of the video.” I watch him for a moment. “Let me guess. Carney took over that investigation, didn’t he? He probably told you it was al-Qaeda or something.”

  The president doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

  “And do you have this…video?” he asks, saying the last word as though he’s just swallowed a bitter pill.

  “No, I don’t,” I say. This might not make the top ten list of smartest moves I’ve ever made. Every bit of leverage I’ve been able to maintain in this sordid affair has come about because of that video. And now I’m willingly giving up that chit. But I’m not going to lie to the leader of the free world. I’m done bluffing. I’m going to stick with the truth for a while and see where that gets me.

  “Mr. President, I don’t care about your personal life. Or the First Lady’s. If I wanted to expose it, I could have done so today in front of the national press. All I said was ‘blackmail.’ I didn’t say what the blackmail was.”

  He turns and looks at me. “You could have come directly to me,” he says. “You didn’t have to confront me publicly.”

  “Yes, I did. Until just now, I didn’t know that Carney was running this operation solo. I thought you were part of this. And I had to stop what was happening.”

  The president rights himself and brushes his suit jacket. This will not go down as one of his better days.

  “You’re a reporter,” he says. “And you’re telling me you won’t say anything about my wife?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. The public doesn’t need to know about her personal life. Not unless it affects your foreign policy strategy.”

  The president breaks eye contact with me and nods. “So if that strategy were to change, and we were to oppose a Russian invasion?”

  “No, no.” I wave him off. “I’m not making a deal with you, Mr. President. Just tell me you’re going to do what you think is best for our country. That’s all I care about.”

  The president takes a deep breath and sizes me up. “You’re not really helping your bargaining position here, son.”

  “That’s because I’m not bargaining. I did what I had to do. Now I’ll deal with the fallout.”

  The president starts with a comment but thinks better of it. I think, somewhere in that look he gives me, he is thanking me. Then he shakes his head, exasperated, and leaves the room.

  Chapter 110

  Midway through his address to the White House press corps, President Francis takes a moment and appears to review his notes. But I don’t think he’s really reviewing those notes. He is mourning the loss of a friend who betrayed him.

  “I should emphasize that the reason I am accepting the resignation of Deputy Director Carney today is that he failed to inform either the CIA director or me of the existence of this entire matter. It was a direct breach of protocol, and it was not in the best interests of this nation. But I must also emphasize that I do not believe that Mr. Carney broke the law. He should have told me what was happening, yes, but otherwise Mr. Carney did his best to thwart the extortion and keep classified national security information from public disclosure. And he appears to have succeeded in that endeavor.”

  The president, looking uncharacteristically shaky, clears his throat and continues. “I have spoken with Prime Minister Mereyedev, who has once again assured me that Mr. Kutuzov was acting alone in his attempt to shape US policy regarding the Russia-Georgia dispute in an effort to bolster his oil company’s profits. He has assured me that Russia was not, at any time, aware of what Mr. Kutuzov was doing and that Russia condemns his actions.”

  Yeah, right. But that’s the song both countries are singing. I would have liked to have been a part of the conversation between President Francis and the Russian prime minister. Once I made the public allegation of blackmail, it became very difficult for the Russians to use that video. It put a spotlight on everything that was happening over there and on our country’s response to it.

  And you can be sure that President Francis let it be known that, after everything that had transpired, the United States government would not look kindly on a Russian invasion of its tiny neighbor Georgia. I imagine sanctions and possible military action made their way into the conversation.

  By the way, I have a theory that Alex Kutuzov was getting more than money out of this deal. I’ll bet a bottle of Stolichnaya that he was promised something big, like maybe being named the next prime minister of the Soviet empire he was helping to re-create. But I guess we’ll never know that, either.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this happened on my watch, and I take full responsibility for it,” says the president. “I’m embarrassed. But rest assured that I have corrected the problem and it will not happen again. And finally, I would like to personally thank a reporter in this room today, Benjamin Casper, for his diligent investigation of this matter. Without Ben, the outcome of this affair would have been very different.”

  Aw…I’m blushing over here. I’ve come out okay in all this. Craig Carney has given a full sta
tement for the record, implicating Alexander Kutuzov in the attacks on me that resulted in the deaths of the cops and Secret Service agents. He has also fingered Kutuzov in the murder of Jonathan Liu and in the murder of Nina Jacobs—even though the Russian thugs were sent there to kill Diana. I’m not really sure how that all played out, but I figure that Carney somehow got wind that the Russians were about to kill Diana and made Diana arrange for Nina to be an unwitting stand-in.

  The president, I’m told, insisted on this full disclosure from Carney. He did it, more than anything, for my benefit, to spare me any hassle from the local police. Maybe he did it for all the right reasons, but my guess is he’s trying to keep me happy. No matter how many times I assure him I will keep the secret about his wife, he must not be totally convinced.

  “Now I’d be happy to answer any questions. Yes, Jane?”

  “Mr. President, what is the effect of Diana Hotchkiss’s guilty plea? Will the classified information remain confidential?”

  “Yes, it will,” the president says. “Ms. Hotchkiss will be spared the death penalty and a trial on charges of treason in exchange for her guilty plea and her agreement not to divulge the information. Yes, Don?”

  “Mr. President, we understand that as a CIA liaison, Diana Hotchkiss spent a good deal of time in the White House, particularly with the First Lady. What has been the First Lady’s reaction to these developments?”

  The president pauses a beat. I swear that his eyes shoot in my direction for a nanosecond. “My wife is devastated,” he says. “It is true that she had a personal friendship with Ms. Hotchkiss. She was very upset to learn of Ms. Hotchkiss’s conduct. Yes, Dean?”

  “Mr. President, there are reports that you will issue a presidential pardon to Craig Carney if the special prosecutor charges him with a crime. Is that a possibility, sir, and have you made such an agreement with Mr. Carney?”

  I was wondering that myself. The attorney general appointed a special prosecutor to look into Carney’s behavior. Did Carney make a veiled threat to the president? Did he say that if he were forced to defend himself in a criminal trial, he might reveal what was on the video? Probably. But we may never know for sure. Or we might have to wait until twenty or thirty years from now, when people are at the ends of their careers and looking to write their bestselling memoirs.