Mistress

Chapter 84

Another restful night of sleep on a mattress about as thick as a piece of cardboard and only slightly less comfortable than sandpaper. I only had to wait about an hour to use the toilet and shower down the hall. I didn’t mind standing in line with my towel and toothbrush next to a mangy guy who kept asking me if I had any hemorrhoid cream (I didn’t), laxatives (nope), dental floss (sorry), or hemorrhoid cream (still no). I was just glad I got to use the bathroom before he did.

Now I’m back at the National Mall-maybe not the most creative choice, but I like it because there are so many people around and I’m close to the metro, where I can hop aboard and go in any number of directions on a moment’s notice. Even if they triangulate the call and figure out where I am, I’ll be long gone before they can get here.

I dial the number and assume-hope-he’ll answer, that he wants me to call.

“Hello, this is Craig Carney,” he says.

I glance around me but don’t see anyone pivoting in my direction or brandishing a firearm.

“Mr. Deputy Director!” I say into the phone. “It’s your old friend. How are you today?”

Nobody ever uses the word brandish unless it’s in connection with a weapon. Why is it you can brandish a sword or a revolver but not, say, a set of keys you just found in the couch cushions? I would brandish keys.

“I might ask you the same question, Benjamin. Sounds like you’ve fallen on hard times. Have you come to your senses yet?”

I do another once-over of the National Mall. Nothing that makes my spidey sense tingle. I’d hate to have webs shoot out of my wrists, but having that spidey sense to detect danger would be awesome.

“I haven’t lost my sense, Mr. Deputy Director. Maybe my dollars, but not my sense.”

He chuckles. “I gave you a chance, Ben. Remember that. And I’ll give you another one, but your options are growing more limited. I’m not sure I can keep you out of prison anymore. But you can avoid the death penalty and get your assets back.”

I shake my head, trying not to let him plant fear in the pit of my stomach. I was just starting to get my groove back yesterday. Alex Kutuzov may have shaken me a little bit, but he did come halfway around the world to meet me at Nationals Park, and, according to my friend who works security for the Nationals, there was a baseball glove bearing my name at the lost and found last night. So at least I have confirmation of the video.

I clear my throat before breaking the news to Craig Carney.

“Mr. Carney,” I say, “I have the video.”

If we were talking in person, I’d brandish the video, which I would have just taken out of my coat pocket. (I mean, if I actually had the video.)

Carney pauses a beat. He’s too polished to shout out Holy shit! or moan or cry, but even a smooth operator like the deputy director has to take a moment for this turn of events.

“Video?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. The video. The video that is bringing our federal government to its knees? Does that ring a bell?”

I’m enjoying this, I admit. But I have to be cognizant of the time. This is like in the movies when there’s a call from a fugitive, and on the law enforcement side, guys are scrambling to run the trace, and one guy is separating his hands in the air to indicate the call should be strrrrrrretched out, and then another guy whispers, He’s somewhere in the city, and finally they get a precise location, someone draws a circle on a map, and everyone bolts from their seats.

In Mission: Impossible, they needed thirty seconds to locate Tom Cruise, but he knew that and hung up after twenty-nine. That always seemed unrealistic to me. Wearing totally lifelike masks of other people’s faces, sure, but a thirty-second phone trace? No way.

Anyway, back to reality, where the deputy director of the CIA is about to play dumb.

“I don’t know of any video, Benjamin. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Surprise! Still, my heartbeat skips up a notch, and I start pacing near the World War II Memorial. “Don’t bullshit me, Mr. Deputy Director. We both know there’s a video of the president and his mistress. And I have a copy.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but now that I’ve given him the detail, he’s probably shitting his pants.

“Son, I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but as usual, you’re in over your head. There’s no video of the president and some ‘mistress,’ because there isn’t any mistress. The president is faithful to his wife.”

He doesn’t sound like someone who’s shitting his pants.

I pause, but he doesn’t elaborate. He’s not being defensive. I don’t detect the slightest tremor in his voice, not a single indication that he is ceding the upper hand to me. If anything, he’s showing me the back of his hand.

“You’re good, Mr. Deputy Director. But I’m not buying your act.”

“Then publish the video, Ben. Play it on the evening news. Give it to one of your reporter friends. Be my guest.”

Now I’m the one shitting my pants.

I stare at my phone. What is he doing? I didn’t expect him to come out and admit the existence of the video, especially over the phone, but he’s not even trying to placate me. He’s not asking me what I want or where we can meet.

He’s telling me to go fuck myself.

I terminate the call and start running to the metro station. That conversation, to say the least, did not go as planned.

Is there a blackmail video or not?