High Treason

CHAPTER EIGHT

When his landline rang at 0730, Jonathan knew that it was Venice. Only a handful of people knew the number, and of those, only she had the courage to wake him at this hour. He fingered the handset from its cradle and brought it to his ear without opening his eyes.

“I hate you,” he said. Next to him on the bed, JoeDog stretched and farted. The seventy-pound black Labrador retriever had no official home — she was the town’s dog with special dispensation from leash laws — but more times than not, when Jonathan was in town, his bed was her bed.

“And good morning to you, too.” Yep, Venice. “A stern voiceless gentleman from the FBI delivered about two tons of paper. I believe they are the files you insisted on having. You know, because we’re in a hurry. Charlie and Rick were kind enough to stack them in the War Room.”

“Have you started sorting through them yet?” When he asked that, he made sure to project a smile that was louder than his words.

“And you hate me. Right. Please shower before you come up.” The line went dead.

The instant Jonathan pulled away the covers and sat up, JoeDog was on her feet and ready to play. Or eat. Or, if all else failed, to go back to sleep again. Jonathan gave her enough of an ear rub to elicit a moan of ecstasy, and then stood. “Okay, Killer. Time to go to work.”

Thirty-five minutes later, the three S’s were taken care of, and JoeDog and Jonathan were climbing the stairs together. At the top, Rick Hare tossed off a two-fingered salute. “Morning, Boss. Looks like you’ve got some research to do.” A former military policeman, Rick carried a .40 caliber Glock on his hip with which he could write his name in a target at twenty-five yards. His job was to serve as the first line of defense — offense, really — if anyone tried to duplicate the attack that nearly killed Venice a while ago. The HK MP5 he wore slung across his chest would help in that effort as well.

“Hi, Rick. I understand that you got stuck with schlepping duty. Sorry about that.”

“Well, that FBI troll wasn’t going to do it, and I didn’t see Ms. Alexander doing it all on her own. That wouldn’t have been right. So me and Charlie pitched in.”

Typical of many former military noncoms, Rick had a hard time addressing superiors by their first names. “I appreciate it,” Jonathan said, suppressing the urge to chastise him for abandoning his post and cooperating in what could have been a trap. Given the bucolic nature of Fisherman’s Cove, it would have sounded outrageously paranoid. Besides, Venice should have known better.

Jonathan pressed his thumb to the print reader and winked at the camera. When the lock buzzed, he pushed the door open and entered the hive of activity that was Security Solutions. As usual, it appeared that he was the last to arrive. You got to do that when you owned the place.

“Good morning everyone,” he said to the room. A few people spoke a greeting in return, but it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan turned left inside the door and approached Charlie Keeling, another member of the guard staff. The two guards on duty split their time between guarding the front door and guarding the entrance to the Cave.

“Listen, Mr. G,” Charlie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I owe you an apology for this morning. Rick and I never should have helped with those boxes, but I couldn’t think of another way. Won’t happen again.”

Jonathan smiled. “I appreciate that, Charlie.” All was forgiven.

“Hey, JoeDog,” Charlie said. He patted his chest with both hands — a spot on his vest just above his slung MP5—and JoeDog planted her forepaws there, thus earning another ear rub.

Charlie buzzed the door and Jonathan and JoeDog both stepped into the Inner Sanctum. The beast made a beeline for her favorite leather chair near the fireplace in Jonathan’s office while her nominal master peeled off and headed for the War Room.

The teak conference table was buried in stacks of what had to be fifty file boxes, each of them marked with a sticker from the FBI proclaiming them to be SECRET: EYES ONLY.

“Holy shit,” Jonathan said.

“Welcome to my world.” Venice sat on the far side of the stack, the top of her head barely visible. “How many times do I have to remind you to be careful what you ask for?”

Jonathan stepped to the table and peeled the lid off a box, revealing file folders. Lots and lots of file folders. “I guess I underestimated the number of her enemies.”

“Oh, I think this is a more comprehensive file than just enemies,” Venice said. “This is essentially every person Yelena Poltanov ever talked to while she was in the United States.”

Jonathan gave a low whistle. “This will take days.”

Venice didn’t answer.

Jonathan pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and started paging through the box nearest him. From what he could tell, the files were organized by date. He started fingering through a box that seemed to span the month of March, 1985—part of the month, anyway. A counterespionage agent codenamed Watchdog had been following Yelena’s every move and taking annoyingly complete notes. As a random sample, Yelena had entered the chemistry lab at 09:54 and emerged in the company of two unknown students at 11:42. From there, she’d proceeded to the campus cafeteria, arriving at 11:57.

“Oh my God,” Jonathan said. “Imagine the poor SOB who had to read through all this minutiae and analyze it.”

“Your tax dollars at work,” Venice said.

Jonathan pulled out one of the rolling chairs that surrounded the conference table and sat. “We need context,” he said. “We don’t have the time to read through this stuff cold and figure out the cast of characters.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ve got nothing.”

“Then keep reading.”

“Have you called in Boxers for this?” Jonathan asked.

Venice laughed. “Right. This is definitely in his wheelhouse.”

Jonathan wanted to argue, but what was the point? Boxers’ attention span in fact did not lend itself to hours of document analysis. Still, it would be nice to have the extra set—

“Bingo!” Venice announced.

“What?”

She held aloft a compact disk. “An index. I’ve been looking for it. The feds always index boxes of files like this.” She swung around to her computer terminal as she spoke, opened the cup holder, and inserted the disk. “I’ll put it up on the wall,” she said.

Her fingers tapped wildly, but for the longest time, all Jonathan saw on the screen were inconsequential numbers and figures. There were dozens of file names — maybe hundreds — but they weren’t organized, and from what Jonathan could tell, the file names themselves were unreadable. Periodically, the cursor would move and Venice would make a satisfied noise, and then the screen would change all over again. Jonathan knew from years of experience not to interrupt her when she got into the zone like this. She was on the hunt, and she’d either find her prey or she would not, but it was always a bad idea to interrupt her concentration.

Meanwhile, Jonathan amused himself by lifting another file out of a box, this one from June 13, 1986.

“Don’t get those out of order,” Venice snapped without looking up from her keyboard. “Indexes don’t do a thing if the papers aren’t in order.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “I promise to be careful.” This time, there were pictures. A much, much younger version of the First Lady sat in a bar with friends, her mouth open wide in a big laugh, while the three men who were with her seemed equally amused. According to the caption, the men were Peter Crenshaw, Albert Banks, and Stephen Gutowski, and the bar was the Bombay Bicycle Club in Alexandria, Virginia. Watchdog had either shot the picture from very close range, or he had a terrific telescopic lens. Either way, this was a picture of four friends having a wonderful time. It was the kind of image that every college student everywhere could have had taken of themselves at one point or another.

Crenshaw, Banks, and Gutowski were described in the narrative as frequent acquaintances of Yelena’s, but they were largely dismissed as inconsequential to the case that was being built against her. Jonathan tucked the photos back into their folder, and tucked the folder back into the spot from which he’d removed it.

Two additional random checks of files for June of 1986 showed equally boring activities, as did five random checks of July. When he reviewed the contents of the file from July 19, 1986, though, he sat a little straighter in his chair. In these photographs, Yelena was nose to nose in an intense conversation with a man who appeared to be slightly older than she. To Jonathan’s eye, they both appeared to be angry, but of course there was no way to be sure. Apparently, the FBI wasn’t using listening technology in their efforts to track Yelena’s movements. Accompanying documentation showed that the picture had been shot in a place called the Hairy Lemon, and that the man in the photo was one Leonard Baxter, a.k.a. Leonid Brava. This was apparently their seventeenth documented meeting.

Jonathan flipped to the next photo in the file, which revealed another man and a woman, Peter and Marcia Carlson, husband and wife, whose names apparently were real. While the scenery from the first photo hadn’t changed, the number of empty glasses on the table had multiplied. While the women preferred wine, the men drank clear liquor straight. None appeared to be having a very good time.

According to the narrative, The conversation at the Hairy Lemon lasted three hours and fourteen mins. This was the seventeenth meeting of all subs. While unable to hear the words that were spoken, the conversation was animated throughout. For a short while, all subjects got angry, but then they settled down. I believe that when all the evidence is finally analyzed, it will show that an important decision was made. Photo 7.19.86–3 documents the final moments before parting. It is clearly celebratory.

Jonathan turned the page again, and the referenced photo showed all the subjects in a four-way handshake, a clear indicator of an agreement made.

The narrative continued, Addendum added 7/24/86: On 7/23/86, twenty-five pounds of Semtex was stolen from Allied Armaments, Inc. in Radford, Virginia. Three days later, Semtex was used in a bomb that killed Soviet Attaché Yuri Brensk in his home in Arlington, Virginia. The explosion was reported to the media as a gas leak.

“Huh,” Jonathan said. He remembered that explosion, just as he remembered the media clamor to turn it into something other than a gas explosion. For a Soviet diplomat to die of a peaceful explosion — as opposed to one created by his enemies — at a time of such political flux — was a hard gap to bridge. If he remembered correctly, it took a statement from the head of ATF — the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives — to eventually calm the waters.

“Okay, I’ve got something,” Venice said. “Take a look at the screen.”

At the far end of the table, the projection screen blinked, and what had been a mishmash of files was now sorted into well-defined columns.

“It seems that our friend Watchdog was one organized fellow,” Venice said. “And his worldview fell into a very convenient black-and-white division.” She used her cursor as a pointer to highlight folders as she spoke. “When we last looked at this mess, it was organized by date, showing what could be found in every folder, date by date.” She clicked and the screen changed. “Here, though, is the topical listing that takes an incident or a question and then cross-references it back to the dates where the events happened.”

Jonathan gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of work.”

“Yes, it is. I’m guessing they did it for the prosecutors in the case so that they could find what they were looking for.” She clicked again. “But here’s the Holy Grail for us.” The screen filled with a heading that read Cast of Characters, below which there were two files, one labeled Conspirators and the other labeled Acquaintances.

Venice clicked on the Conspirators file, and after a second or two of electronic contemplation, the computer launched a screen full of pictures and names. There were more than a few — more than would fit on the screen — but Jonathan zeroed right in on Leonid Brava and the Carlsons.

“I clearly haven’t had time to review all of this, but these appear to be the bad guys,” Venice explained.

“Click on that Brensk guy for me,” Jonathan said. This picture, like the one he’d seen in the file, showed a man who’d stepped out of KBG Central Casting. He had a round, pugilist’s face with a jet-black hairline that nearly met his jet-black eyebrows.

When Venice clicked the file open, the screen filled with personal data — name, address, phone number, place of employment, relatives, that sort of thing. When she clicked again, the screen blinked to another list of files cross-referenced to dates.

“That’s a lot of information,” Venice said. “I’ll grant that it’s well organized, but it’s still a lot.”

“Well, yes and no,” Jonathan countered. “We don’t need to try the case here. We don’t care about who they blew up or conspired to kill back in the eighties. We just need to track down the bad guys and find out where they took the First Lady.”

“Shouldn’t they all be in jail?” Venice asked.

“I think they should all be dead,” Jonathan said. “If they are, then we need to start looking at their friends and families. How long should the first cut take?”

Venice backed out of the files and returned to the stacked pictures. She scrolled through them. “It looks like there are eighteen,” she said. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

David Kirk had always wanted to be on television, though not in the way that so many of his classmates in J-school wanted to be there. While the others strove for fame as on-camera reporters, David wanted to find fame the way Bob Woodward or Charles Krauthammer did — by being so respected as a print reporter and columnist that the serious news shows would seek him out as the intelligent guest who could explain the news of the day. Respect was the key, and he was willing to earn it from the bottom up.

He’d never dreamed that he’d end up reaching bottom on the very day that he first appeared on television. He’d awoken still tired — and, frankly, a little raw and achy in his southern parts, thanks to a series of carnal stunts that startled the hell out of him. It turned out that Becky had studied the Kama Sutra. Or yoga. Or maybe was a gymnast in her past life. Either way, it had been a hell of a night. It had apparently been good for Becky, too, because the deep rhythm of her breathing never changed as he reached over her to lift the remote from her nightstand. The clock read 6:59.

Still glowing, he tuned into the Today show to catch the top-of-the-hour news. He didn’t learn much that he didn’t already know. The economy was still slogging along on its anemic recovery, the Arabs still didn’t like the Jews, and the American military was slumping back to the meals-on-wheels mission that had dominated it during his childhood years.

At the quarter-hour break, when the “news” show switched to promoting upcoming movies and their stars, he rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom for morning chores, as his mother used to call them. He’d just gotten the water temperature right for his shower when he heard Becky calling from the other room. Her voice had a touch of panic to it. “David! Come here! Quickly!”

He damn near killed himself dashing back into the bedroom, where he found Becky sitting upright and bare breasted, pointing at the television screen. And what fine breasts they were. He allowed his eyes to follow the line of her finger, and that’s when his world ended. Again.

The television screen had transformed into a giant portrait of his face. Along the bottom, just under his chin, an electronic caption read, Wanted in Cop’s Murder. What was it, he wondered, about seeing it on television made it more real than merely knowing it to be true? Just like that, the air in the room seemed to thin and he needed to sit on the edge of the bed, one foot curled under his butt, and the other dangling to the floor, as if to keep him in contact with the reality of the hardwood. Without looking, Becky laid a reassuring hand on his knee.

The newsreader from Washington’s Channel Four said something about the “brutal murder” of DeShawn Lincoln around nine o’clock the previous evening, but David didn’t pay attention to the actual words. He was too overwhelmed by their meaning. This wasn’t just bad news anymore. This was an all-out call for the people closest to him to call the police. If his bank accounts hadn’t been locked out before, they sure as hell were now. At his apartment, his computer and his records and probably his underwear and socks were all in an evidence locker now, being pored over by cops who would sell their souls for the honor of shooting a cop killer.

“We need to move quicker than I thought,” Becky said, and then she was on her feet. “Let’s shower together,” she said. “It’ll save time.”

That had been two hours ago.

Now, he sat on a bench in Farragut Park with the collar of his new down coat standing high and a stocking cap pulled low against the bitter cold. If there was one ray of sunshine to be found in the black pall that his life had become in the last twelve hours, it was the fact that the frigid weather made it easier to be disguised.

He sat on the bench nearest the western side of Daniel Farragut’s towering statue, keeping a close eye on the mouth of the Farragut West Metro Station. Becky had called the other party for this meeting under the auspices of introducing him to a news source. She and David had both been surprised that he’d agree so readily, and that fact alone added more stress to the day.

At a few minutes before nine-thirty, Grayson Cantrell emerged from the shadows of the subway station and stood at the corner of H Street and Connecticut Avenue, waiting for the light to turn, and for the red sign to turn white so that he could cross the street to the park. Seventy pounds overweight and bearing the ruddy complexion of a heavy drinker, Cantrell was to David part of the last of the old-school Washington journalists, for whom research meant a phone call to an old buddy, and source development meant buying a couple of rounds at lunch. At least thirty years younger, David didn’t so much feel sorry for the old guy who’d been caught in a weird time warp as he did envy him for having lived the life of the reporter that he’d always dreamed of one day being.

Cantrell didn’t seem the least bit anxious or even curious about what lay ahead as the light changed and he strolled across the street and entered the park. In the summer, this was a place of Frisbee games and impromptu concerts. This time of year, however, Farragut Park was merely a place of transit, a spot for commuters to hurry through, on their way to their offices in the morning, and to their homes at night. Of the precious few who occupied the park benches, the vast majority were homeless people who lay insulated in a dozen layers of fabric.

Grayson Cantrell walked right up to David and sat down. “How’s life as a fugitive?” he asked.

David’s insides melted at the question. “You knew?”

True to the overall image, Cantrell wore an old-style London Fog trench coat — with the wool lining installed — the collar of which he scrunched up around his throat as he helped himself to the seat next to the younger man. “Knew what?” he baited. “That you were you, or that you were wanted for murder?”

“Um, both.”

“I’ve known since last night that you were suspected of killing that cop,” Cantrell explained. As he spoke, he seemed more interested in the passing crowd than he did in David. “But I thought from the beginning that that was bullshit. You’re a lot of things — most of them less than complimentary — but I don’t see you as a murderer.”

David found himself smiling. “Thank you.”

“For what? I’m neither a jury nor a cop who’d mortgage his nut sack for a chance to shoot you. As for knowing that you were you, well, suffice to say that disguises are not your long suit.”

David pulled his hat further down on his ears.

“Is it safe to assume that you put Becky up to calling me?” Cantrell asked.

David cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. It was all he could come up with.

Cantrell chuckled. “Let me amend my last comment,” he said. “Deception in general is not your long suit. Tell me what is going on.”

David didn’t know precisely how he thought this meeting was going to go, but he knew for a fact that this was not it. He’d been shitty with Cantrell for both of the two years that he’d been at the Enquirer, and as such, Cantrell had every right to be shitty back to him. This niceness routine made him uncomfortable. It took David the better part of ten minutes to catch Cantrell up on the essential elements of what had transpired in the last twenty-four hours.

Cantrell listened intently through the whole recitation, and when David was finally done, he let out a low whistle. “Jesus, David. You’re in serious trouble.”

“I knew that.”

“No, I mean serious trouble.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, cupped them, and blew into them before stuffing them back. “If what you and your friend are implying is true, then the Secret Service is framing you for murder. In my experience, if the feds want to hurt you, you’re going to end up hurt.”

David scowled and stretched his neck on his shoulders. This wasn’t turning out to be as helpful or empowering as he’d hoped.

“So, why did you call me?” Cantrell asked.

“You know everybody,” David replied. “You have forty years’ worth of sources, and I’m going to guess that they’ll be happy to talk with you about anything. I need to know what I’m really up against.”

“And you can’t approach these sources yourself.”

“Exactly,” David said. “After watching the news this morning, I was close to ratting myself out. Their case seems damn strong. Except, you know, for the part where they’re completely wrong.”

“Jails are filled with the innocent,” Cantrell said. “Just ask them.” As he spoke, he continued to seem more interested in the crowd than he was in David.

David craned his neck to check what he was checking. “What are you looking at?”

“For,” Cantrell said. “I’m looking for anyone who might see through your brilliant disguise. Unlike you, at this precise moment in time, I still have a great deal to lose.” It was classic Cantrell, simultaneously insulting and helpful.

“Why did you come if you knew I was going to be here?” David asked. At this point, life was literally too short to be subtle.

When Cantrell looked at him this time, David caught the first glimpse of real kindness in the grumpy old fart’s eyes. Nestled under thick, droopy lids and surrounded by squint lines, the irises were a remarkable blue, nearly gray. “First of all, I didn’t know you would be here. I merely suspected. But to your larger point— why am I here alone instead of with a SWAT team in tow — I told you before that I thought from the very beginning that the news reports were wrong.”

Grayson placed a hand on David’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture that stirred emotion in David’s throat.

“My boy, I am an old man. I’d been three times around the block before Woodstein got their first sniff of Watergate. My first big story was the DC riots of sixty-eight. Over that many years, you get a sense for people, a kind of sixth sense that is more compelling than any curriculum vitae. It’s never let me down.”

David scowled. “I don’t—”

“Listen,” Cantrell said, finishing the sentence in a way David had not intended. “You don’t listen. And that’s a terrible flaw in a reporter. It’s also a trait common to every reporter your age. Hell, maybe it’s common to every person your age.” The statement ended in a glare that somehow froze David’s vocal cords.

“In any event, while I find you to be arrogant, narcissistic, and in general way too full of yourself, you have never for a moment impressed me as a person capable of murder. Sitting here next to you, I’ve seen nothing to change my mind.”

For a second, David wondered if the appropriate response was to thank him. On further consideration, though, finding no compliment, he decided not to. “Still,” he said, “I appreciate you taking the chance and coming to see me. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

Cantrell held up his hand for silence.

Yeah, and I’m the arrogant one, David didn’t say.

“Your friend DeShawn Lincoln was not liked among his fellow cops. My sources have independently referred to him as twitchy, paranoid, obnoxious, and one who bristled at authority. The phrase common to all sources was ‘pain in the ass.’ And please know that I mean no offense to the dead, or to your friendship.”

David scowled. “You’ve already started looking into the case?”

“I’ve been at my desk since six this morning. I’m always at my desk by six. All of this notwithstanding, those who knew him all agreed that he seemed genuinely unnerved yesterday. Two actually used the word ‘frightened.’ The law of the police locker room being what it is, though, no one ventured to ask him why.”

“I assumed that he didn’t want to talk to his fellow cops because he feared that they were in on whatever bad things were happening,” David explained.

“Oh, how I love to depend on assumptions. They have served me so well over the years.” Cantrell did sarcasm better than most. “Based on what your friend Becky told me on the phone, I did some research on the shooting at the Wild Times Bar the other night. Before I get into it, though, tell me again what your friend said about the Secret Service.”

David shook his head. “He didn’t really say much of anything. There was just a mention that whatever bad things were happening, the Secret Service might be involved. Beyond being the victims of the shooting, I mean.”

“He suspected that the Secret Service might have shot their own?”

David checked himself before answering. “Admittedly another assumption,” he said, “but that’s what I got by reading between the lines.”

Cantrell inhaled deeply, and ran the back of his hand between his neck and the collar of his coat. “Interesting indeed,” he said. He scanned the park one more time, then poked David with his elbow. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk and talk.”

They headed north, away from the White House, which lay only three blocks to the south. As they headed toward Connecticut Avenue, it occurred to David that every morning and evening, the Secret Service closed this road in a rolling roadblock as the vice president headed back to his residence in the Naval Observatory. David’s legs felt stiff after having sat for so long.

“In such a short time, I haven’t had a lot of time to speak with witnesses,” Cantrell said. It was his habit to start with an apology before launching the game-changing revelation. “One of the bartenders, though, is friends with my nephew, and he told me that he thought for sure that Anna Darmond was there when the shooting started.”

David felt his jaw slacken. “The First Lady?”

“Exactly she.”

“The president’s wife. In a sleazoid bar.” David had a hard time wrapping his head around that one.

“She’s famous for nighttime jaunts,” Cantrell said. “And that would explain the Secret Service presence.”

David cocked his head as he tried to connect the dots. “So, you’re saying this was an attempted assassination?”

“I’m saying nothing of the sort, because no one can prove that Mrs. Darmond was even there. Andy Wahl, the ABC White House stringer for NBC, sort of floated the question during the morning news briefing, but the suit behind the lectern piffled the question away, as if to say such a thing was preposterous.”

“Did he actually say it was preposterous?”

Cantrell gave him a disappointed look. “Does this administration ever actually say anything?”

David tried to make it work in his mind. “Why wouldn’t it be all over the news? That’s not exactly a little thing.”

“It could mean the cover-up of cover-ups.”

David stopped for the light at L Street. “You say this as if you think it sounds reasonable.” He felt way too exposed out here in the commuting crowd, but between the cold-weather gear and the prevailing lack of eye contact among city dwellers, he might as well have been invisible.

Cantrell looked straight ahead as he said, “Not to patronize, but a few more years in this job will teach you not to make sense of a story as you’re collecting information. Once you have the facts assembled, they will make sense out of themselves.”

The light changed, and they stepped off the curb together. “You are patronizing,” David said, “and in this case, not well. We’re making assumptions based upon third-party rumors. That’s not the same as chasing facts.”

“Don’t believe it then,” Cantrell said. “I’m just passing along information. Out of the goodness of my heart, I hasten to add. And there’s more if you’d like to hear it.”

David waited for it, and then realized that Cantrell actually wanted an answer. “Of course.”

Cantrell gave a satisfied smirk. “All of the witnesses to the shooting last night spoke of a third big SUV as the vehicle containing the shooters. According to my nephew’s friend — the bartender — the guys in the shooting vehicle grabbed a homeless guy who looked to be dead and threw him in the back of their vehicle and then tore off with him.”

David scoured his memory. “I don’t remember a report of a dead homeless guy.”

Cantrell shot him with a gloved finger-gun. “Bingo.”

“What bingo? What are you trying to tell me?”

“That whoever these guys are, whatever they’re doing, they’re also covering up a murder.”

“Did anyone else see this dead homeless guy?”

“I’m sure they did,” Cantrell said. “I just need to find them. Problem is, from what I can tell, of the people the cops interviewed after it was over — the few that were left after they all ran the other way — none of them mentioned the homeless man.”

“Maybe because he wasn’t there?”

Cantrell smacked the back of David’s head. “Get in the spirit of things, will you? You’ve got dead Secret Service agents, you’ve got a government-looking van, a vanished dead guy, and the likelihood that the First Lady was there. I don’t scream ‘conspiracy’ very often, but I’m screaming it now. And then there’s the not insignificant detail that the person who wanted to talk to a reporter about it ends up murdered, with the reporter he was going to talk to framed for his killing.”

David had to stop. They stood just outside the Mayflower Hotel, amid the morning taxi-catching scrum. Hearing Grayson Cantrell sum it all up like that made things seem suddenly hopeless. David had never been much of a fighter — he talked a good game, but for the most part just rolled over when the going got too tough — and he had no idea how to take on the federal government, if that was what it was coming to.

“Maybe the homeless guy was the target of the hit,” David said. It felt like a random comment under the circumstances.

“Maybe,” Cantrell agreed. He lightly grasped David’s arm at the elbow and urged him forward. “Let’s keep moving. But if that were the case, it would mean that the rest was all coincidence — that the Secret Service just happened to be there, and that the corresponding likelihood of the First Lady being present was just one of those things.”

David gave a wry chuckle. “If the alternative is some great national conspiracy, I think I prefer the coincidence.”

“As you wish.”

They walked in silence for the half block that took them to the complicated intersection where Connecticut Avenue met M Street and Rhode Island Avenue. David didn’t like where his head went without talking. “I really do thank you for this, Grayson.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And what’s the quid pro quo?”

Cantrell recoiled, clearly feigning insult. “I’m shocked, young man. Shocked I tell you. Isn’t it possible that I am merely feeling altruistic?”

“Never occurred to me.”

Cantrell laughed. “See? You really do have reporter’s instincts. But this time, contrary to character, I truly am acting merely out of the goodness of my heart.”

David’s gut tightened. “Um, why?”

Cantrell laughed harder at whatever he saw in David’s face. “Good God. Is it really my reputation to be such a prick?”

“I’m actually not sure what you want the answer to be,” David said.

“No answer is necessary. Perhaps when all of this settles out, you’ll be able to set the record straight and tell all who will listen that Grayson Cantrell is willing to lend a helping hand to a needy colleague.”

“So you’ll help me with the story?”

“I thought that’s what I’m doing now,” Cantrell said. A veil of sadness edged out some of the twinkle in his eye.

“Well, you are,” David said. “But now that everyone’s looking for me, I thought that maybe—”

Cantrell shook his head slowly. “I can’t do shoe-leather work for you,” he said. “More precisely — more honestly—I won’t do shoe-leather work for you.”

David’s stomach fell. It’s precisely what he was going to ask, and while he recognized that it was an outrageous favor, the disappointment tasted bitter. “Okay,” he said.

Cantrell sighed. “Look, David. I’m an old man. The job that I used to love bears little resemblance today to what it was like back when I loved it. In a year or two, when I retire, I want to be remembered for my decades of hard work as a journeyman reporter.”

“But this—”

“Hear me out. I’ve lost my taste for the big kill. I don’t want the big story anymore. I can’t afford the risk.”

David scowled.

“You’re young. You can swing for the fences and take big chances. If you get the story wrong, you have years to recover. If I go for the big one and blow it, that’s all I’ll be remembered for. The rest of it — all those years — won’t mean anything. It’s as if I would never have existed. I can’t live with that.”

The emotion on Cantrell’s face looked a lot like shame. David didn’t begin to understand the rationale behind the older man’s words, but he recognized finality when he heard it.

“Well, thanks then,” David said. “I think.”

“You think I’m a coward,” Cantrell said. “And that’s okay. Perhaps I am.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Now who’s patronizing?”

David felt his ears turn red. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. That’s not my place. I’m just feeling very alone right now.”

“Reporters are about getting the story. We’re not used to being the story. It’s a lonely place to be.”

Lonely and crushing and soul stealing. Panic inducing. David didn’t know how he was going to breathe through the encroaching panic attack.

“Are you interested in a suggestion from a cowardly old man?” Cantrell asked.

“Right now, I’m just interested in conversation. Human contact.” A beat. “I’d love to hear whatever you have to tell me.

“Your blog,” Cantrell said. “I believe it’s called Kirk Nation, right?”

“You mean you don’t read it?”

“I don’t partake of the medium that will soon kill the medium that pays my bills. But I understand that many people do read it.”

“About a hundred twenty thousand hits a day,” David said.

“That’s nice. Barely ten percent of what our readership used to be.”

“But nearly a quarter of what it is now,” David countered.

“Indeed. I was thinking that you might do well to write a piece that posits exactly the scenario you outlined to me this morning.”

“But I don’t have the facts.”

“It’s the Internet, David. When did hard facts become a requisite for writing a story?”

“Kirk Nation is not like that.” David hated it when these Stone Age paper guys took shots at the future that they feared to enter.

“Hear the rest,” Cantrell said. “And I meant no harm. The point of writing the piece would not be to report the facts, per se, but rather to float out a bit of bait. Given that you are the focus of an international manhunt, what you posit by way of this incident will get a lot of attention.”

“From the very people I’m trying to avoid.”

“From everyone. If you put it out there, people will start asking questions. If your theory is right, it should trigger a panic somewhere. When people panic, they make mistakes.”

“They also start shooting people.”

Cantrell’s eyes flashed. “Well, there’s that, yes. But that’s more of a constant in your personal equation than a variable, is it not? The important fact is that people will start pressing for more details. The universe can support only a finite number of lies. With enough people searching for the truth, the cover-up will collapse. At least it should.”

David let the words bounce around his head for a while. “That’s a pretty aggressive strategy,” he said. “It’s a little putting on a Speedo to go out and kick a hornet’s nest.”

“Imagery that I neither want nor need,” Cantrell said. “From where I sit — and remember, I’m the coward among us — a passive approach largely guarantees you a grave or a jail cell. If the hornets are going to sting you anyway, why not make a game of it?”

“Pretty damn high stakes,” David thought aloud. Then, to Cantrell: “This is the First Lady we’re talking about. This could have tentacles that reach to the White House. I’m just one guy. I don’t have any White House sources. I don’t have a single layer of protection.”

Cantrell put a hand on David’s shoulder. “It’s your life, son. You’ve got to live it the way you want. Do you own a gun?”

“A gun! Who the hell am I going to shoot?”

“Yourself, I’d think,” Cantrell said. “If it comes to that. Die or live. Run or live. Hide or live. Go to prison or live. Each is the opposite of living, as far as I’m concerned. It’s just a matter of choosing your method.”

Suddenly this entire meeting felt like a terrible mistake. David felt his world collapsing into a dark, dense void. Cantrell was right, of course. Not about the suicide — he’d never be able to do that — but about the need to be aggressive.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along for the ride?” David asked.

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. And I’m sorry it’s that way.” As he looked down at his feet, the slate-gray sky gave up a few flakes of snow. Not enough to accumulate, but more than enough to start snarling traffic in Washington.

“I guess that’s it, then,” David said. “Thank you, Grayson.”

“Billy Zanger,” Cantrell said.

“Excuse me?”

“Billy Zanger. He’s a deputy assistant press secretary at the White House. Maybe a deputy deputy. He’s junior, but he was appointed by President Darmond. You might even be older than he. He’s a child. No offense.”

David was well beyond being sensitive to insult. “What about him?”

“He’s a source,” Cantrell said. “He’s an unnamed knowledgeable insider. If you need to sweat someone, he’s the one.”

David pulled up short. “Why would he help me? He doesn’t know me from Adam.”

Grayson shrugged. “It’s what confidential sources do. They talk.”

“Only when they trust you.”

Grayson donned the condescending smile that suited him so well. “David, my boy, there are only three reasons why sources talk to reporters, and none of them are rooted in trust.” He counted them off with his fingers, starting off with his thumb. “One: They leak information that their bosses want them to leak — the policy statement that comes with full deniability. Two: They realize that their careers aren’t going the way they want them to, and they see opportunity in betrayal. The common denominator there is the advancement of their own careers. We journalists are merely their vectors.”

David felt anger brewing in his gut. “Wow, you really are the cynic, aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term ‘realist.’ And we listen to them for the same reason. Their betrayals give us the stories that make our careers. And as a class, I have to say that we reporters are not all that incentivized to determine whether the underlying facts behind the leaks are truth or fiction. The fact that an important person said it is itself newsworthy.”

David shook his head, a rattling motion to make the loose pieces fall into place. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because you asked about motivation, and you made a speech about getting the facts right. You’re wading into deep, deep waters, and I wanted you to know how much different the rules of the game are from what you think they are.”

“Because I’m naïve.”

“I was going to say idealistic, but naïve works, too. This is Washington, David. There are no legitimate high horses to mount, and all houses are made of glass. Never forget that. Leave the speech making and the lofty phrases to the politicians. They deliver them better, and no one believes them anyway.”

“What does this have to do with this Zaney guy?”

“It’s Zanger. William Henry Zanger of Concordia, Kansas, via Northwestern University. He lives in Lake Ridge, Virginia, with his public school teacher wife, Barbie, and baby daughter, Hope. Lake Ridge isn’t quite the end of the world, but you can see it from there.”

“This is important?”

“Damned straight it’s important. Billy still owes eighty-seven thousand dollars to Northwestern for his English literature degree. On top of that, they’ve got a two hundred ten thousand dollar mortgage on their tiny little townhouse. That’s almost three hundred thousand dollars in debt to be paid for from combined incomes of under a hundred-fifty-K a year. Do the math.”

“How’d he qualify for that kind of mortgage in this kind of market?” Even as he asked the question, he realized that he’d locked on to the wrong detail.

Cantrell saw it, too, and laughed. “Lending institutions have done very well by currying favor with this administration. But this brings us to the third and most powerful motivation to talk to a reporter.”

David saw it, but was horrified. “Money?”

“Money.”

“You pay sources? That’s unethical.”

This time, Cantrell’s laugh was pure derision. “Now you’re definitely being naïve.”

“The Washington Enquirer, the city’s leading newspaper, allows you to buy information from sources?”

“Of course they don’t allow it. But they also don’t look all that carefully into the ‘miscellaneous’ category on expense reports.” He used finger quotes.

“And Charlie Baroli knows you’re doing it?”

A shrug. “I can’t say that we’ve ever discussed it, but yeah, there’ve been winks along the way. It’s how the system works.”

“But if you’re buying information, how can you ever trust what you get?”

“How can you not? If the information is good, the buyer keeps coming back. If it’s not, then the game ends quickly. Simple supply and demand.”

David felt sick.

“Come on, David. Don’t look so devastated. Our relationship to politicians is equal parts symbiotic and parasitic. Neither can flourish without the other. Keeping the pump primed is good for business.”

David wanted to move on. “So you have this symbiotic parasitic relationship with Billy Zanger. How does that help me?”

“That’s the beautiful part, the part that gives us scribes the upper hand when all is said and done. One could argue that by buying information, we violate some universal ethical code. Clearly, that’s what you think. But when they accept the money, they break the law. That fact — and the fact that we can expose them for what they are — gives us ownership rights.”

David wasn’t sure that he understood.

“I can trade him,” Cantrell said.

David felt his jaw drop open.

Cantrell laughed again. David was getting tired of that sound. “It’s the dirtiest of businesses, isn’t it?” He clapped David on the shoulder. “Anyway, he’s yours if you want him. Believe it or not, his address is in the book.”

Cantrell offered his hand. “Good luck, David. I’ve got to get back to resting on my laurels.”

David shook, and felt oddly ashamed for doing so.