Mistress

Chapter 104

Alex Kutuzov’s smile evaporates. He jumps to his feet. His mind is racing. He can’t reconcile his disbelief with my confidence.

“It’s real,” I say. “You should say something.”

Jay Mohr’s line to Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire when he fired him at lunch. Now I’m feeling better.

“You just confessed to being behind the deaths of those cops,” I say. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that’s a crime in America.”

Kutuzov’s eyes race over me. “You did not record this conversation,” he says, panicking. “We checked. We took every precaution.”

“That’s true,” I concede. “I didn’t record this.”

“Then it is simply your word against mine.”

“It’s really just your words, Alex.”

Kutuzov removes a small handgun from the pocket of his pants. I didn’t even know he had it. He points it at me and starts speaking furiously in Russian.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” I say, but he’s not talking to me.

“Explain this!” he shouts at me. “Or I’ll kill you now.”

“You shoot me,” I say, “and you’re liable to lose a lot of those humanitarian awards.” Chevy Chase to Joe Don Baker in Fletch. This is like a buffet for me.

“Nyet!” he shouts, again not to me. But I know a little Russian. His name is Andrei Bogomolov.

“Explain what you say,” Kutuzov says to me, sweating now, his hand trembling as he approaches me with the gun aimed at my head.

“I didn’t record this,” I say again. “But you did, Alex.”

His eyes widen. He knows I’m right. He’s been wearing a wire so his entire team, including the sharpshooter, Victor, can listen in. That’s why he had to walk away when his goon checked me for a recording device. The detector would have gone off because of Alex’s wire, which is probably tucked under his shirt and taped to his chest.

“You’ve been sending an electronic signal to your people all around the National Mall,” I explain. “The Metropolitan Police Department intercepted that signal, Alex. Everything you’ve said to me is on tape now. Amazing, the technology law enforcement has.”

“You’re bluffing,” he spits, trying to show disdain but unable to hide his growing fear. “These are all lies!”

He’s talking to me, but he’s really talking to his team listening in. They aren’t loyal to him; they’re loyal to the Russian government. And Alexander Kutuzov needs to convince them that he hasn’t just become a very big liability-a man who is about to be arrested by the DC police, a desperate man who would confess to Operation Delano in order to save himself from the death penalty for killing DC cops.

And then I hear the sweetest sound, the melodious song I’ve been eagerly awaiting.

The sound of police sirens. Metropolitan Police squad cars racing to the National Mall.

“Here they come,” I say. “They recorded the entire thing and now they’re here to arrest you. You better start thinking about that deal you’re going to cut.” I raise my voice for that last comment to make sure his team hears it.

“Lies!” Kutuzov shouts. “The police are after you, not me.”

“Okay, fine, Alex. Let’s both sit here and see which one of us they arrest.”

He stares at me. I stare at him. For a glorious moment, it seems that time has stood still.

But it hasn’t, and with each passing moment, those sirens get louder.

“Quite the pickle you’re in,” I note. “You think the cops will take the death penalty off the table if you tell them about Operation Delano?”

And then something happens. Kutuzov touches the earpiece in his left ear and shouts, “Nyet!” as the goon by the reflecting pool breaks into a full sprint to the south. A number of other people on the National Mall-the rest of the Russian team-scatter in various directions. Somebody, somewhere, is ordering the team to disperse.

Kutuzov, in full panic now, waves his pistol around and unleashes a flurry of appeals in Russian. I assume he’s telling his team that I’m lying, that I’m bluffing. And he would be correct. The DC cops aren’t working with me. They didn’t record anything. The only reason they’re speeding toward us is an anonymous call that Detective Liz Larkin just received from an untraceable phone used by a crusty Irishman and former Chicago cop informing her that wanted fugitive Benjamin Casper could be found at the Lincoln Memorial. They’re coming here to arrest me.

But Kutuzov doesn’t know that. And neither does his team. They have to make a decision and make it fast, because those sirens are getting louder.

“I will kill him!” Kutuzov shouts toward the Mall, and I assume he means me, but before he can turn in my direction, another crisp sound pierces the air, another thwip. The back of Kutuzov’s head explodes and his eye vomits blood. His knees buckle and his body rocks back and forth before he falls, face-first, down the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial, bouncing two or three steps before coming to a rest.

The sirens are upon us now, the sounds of the police vehicles crunching over the grass. I squat down next to Alex Kutuzov’s lifeless body.

“That’s for Ellis Burk,” I say to him. Then I turn and run.