Mistress

Chapter 107

Once upon an evening late, having signed away my fate,

I reluctantly await my ruthless punishment’s arrival.

I have sorely taxed the patience of the governmental agents;

I have severed my relations with those holding my survival

In their hands, for I depend on two conditions, truth

and honor-

Only that, and nothing more.

The room is nothing but gray walls, a table, and two chairs. I was placed in here by two members of the Secret Service who didn’t say a word to me and pushed me through the door before locking it closed.

It’s chilly in here, but otherwise I’m comfortable-relaxed in a way that’s reminiscent of the way I felt at the end of final exams (though I don’t recall any final exams where people shot at me). I can’t change anything now. All the running and hiding and searching and strategizing is over. I did it. There’s no taking back what I said. I’ve given up all leverage with Craig Carney. He is free to bring the full weight of the federal government down on me.

But I got a few things in return. I got payback against a Russian billionaire and justice for Ellis Burk. I got twenty millions dollars that, unbeknownst to said billionaire, was wired into an account for families of law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty. And I stopped the Russians from controlling our foreign policy.

I’ve sat in here for three hours. During that time I’ve made some hard decisions. The first is that Ben Affleck has now fully redeemed himself for the whole J.Lo-Gigli disaster, especially after The Town, which is one of my favorite movies. The second is that Andrew Dice Clay, however piggish he may be, is really not a bad actor.

The third is that I’d really prefer not to go to prison, but there’s not much I can do to prevent that now.

A large African American man enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is Ronald Hamilton, the top Secret Service agent protecting the president.

He cocks his head and gives me a scolding look. “Have you totally lost your mind?”

“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.