Mistress

Chapter 99

I stretch my arms to release some nervous tension. I’m in my boxers, staring at a stained wall in my dingy hotel room, holding in my hand a cell phone that Sean Patrick Riley gave me last night, about to make a phone call that could change everything.

The calm before the storm. Rocky, looking into the mirror before he entered the ring against Apollo Creed. Tom Cruise, before he cross-examined Jack Nicholson at the court-martial. Mikey in Swingers, before he summoned the courage to call that girl from the bar, Nikki, which ended in Mikey leaving her seven or eight voice mails in a row, each one more disastrous than the previous one, before she picked up and told him to drop dead.

Okay, maybe that last one is less inspirational. But notice there are no presidents in there. Not since Detective Liz Larkin said that I learned all that presidential trivia as a way of bonding with Father. That isn’t true. I just thought it was interesting information. I wasn’t bonding with Father. Screw him. I don’t need him. I’ve done just fine without him. I’m never going to recite another piece of presidential trivia as long as I live. No more poems they liked or shoes they wore or dogs they owned.

Never again. Write it down. The only president I’m going to worry about is the one occupying the White House right now, who has breached his oath of office and is fucking with my world.

I haven’t slept, in case you hadn’t noticed. I gave up trying last night about four in the morning, and, unable to leave this hotel-with police all over the capital hunting me-I have done nothing but pace the floor in this tiny, dirty room for hours on end. It’s probably a good rehearsal for federal prison, which, if this call doesn’t go well, is probably the best outcome I can expect. The worst is a coffin.

Game on, Ben. Don’t fuck this up.

I pick up the prepaid phone. I dial the number and place the phone to my ear.

One ring. Two. My empty stomach churns on adrenaline. My hand can hardly hold the phone.

Don’t screw this up…don’t be like Mikey-

“Hello.” The word is delivered in an icy, flat tone, dripping, of course, with the thick accent.

I take one deep breath. “Mr. Kutuzov, it’s Ben Casper.”

“Ah, Mr. Casper.” Meester Kahsper.

“We have some business to discuss,” I say.

“Do we, now? I must tell you, Mr. Casper, that I am having my doubts about you. When you first contacted me, I assumed that you had come into possession of a very important item. Now I am not so sure.”

“Well, you should be sure, Alex. I have the video. And I have a digital file rigged to be e-mailed to every news outlet in North America if anything happens to me.”

“I see,” he says with amusement coloring his tone. Like he doesn’t believe me.

“I want twenty million dollars wired to a specific account, Alex. And when I receive it, you have my assurance that the video will remain confidential.”

Kutuzov clucks his tongue. “No, no, Mr. Casper. I think not. My friend, I know you are trying to find this video. But I now believe that you have been unable to obtain it. I believe you were-bluffing, as you Americans say? You were bluffing me previously.”

That’s true. I was. And I’m bluffing now, too.

“I’m not bluffing now,” I say.

“Then tell me what is on the video,” he says. “Prove to me that you have a copy.”

That’s basically the same thing Craig Carney said to me yesterday, and I failed the test. I hope I pass this time. Because if I don’t, I have no way out.

“It’s a sex video of Diana Hotchkiss with the First Lady, Libby Rose Francis,” I say.

And I hold my breath. This is the moment. Right or wrong. Live or die. It sure would be nice if I actually had that damn video file.

Kutuzov releases a sigh.

“Give me your account number,” he says, sounding like he’s lost a little bit of the confidence in his voice.